by Harish Bhat
With this, Pandian placed the bag on a tall wooden stool. It looked very old, with thin cracks visible on the brown leather which had a very seasoned look. Rahul stepped closer, he felt the leather gently and smelt it. He trusted his sense of smell more than his other senses because he firmly believed that smell, unlike the other senses, never lets anyone down. The leather smelt faintly of the coffee plantations, but it also had a distant whiff of the cemetery in Tokyo.
And then, with a flourish worthy of a performing magician, Pandian threw open the bag.
11
Pandian, the custodian and opener of the bag, stepped aside reverentially as soon as he opened it. Then he looked into the bag, scanned its contents silently and stood still. His face betrayed no emotion, nothing at all.
Rahul, lover of coffee and obedient servant of Neha, took two steps forward immediately. He did not want to waste even a minute, lest the bag shut firmly again because you never knew what the monk had ordained. He touched the bag, ran his hands over the pouches inside it and then retracted.
Neha, the recently declared treasure hunter with a newly discovered love of coffee, went up, bent her head and smelt the bag. The dusty, musty smell of the bag that had just been opened after several years assailed her nostrils. She looked at Rahul as if to silently ask what was next.
RG, invisible to everyone, floated around the bag and poked its contents gently. He knew what was coming up. It was a puzzle, a clue to the great treasure. He remembered what the monk had told him not once, but twice. This wonderful monk had loved puzzles, particularly when he was a trifle drunk on his favourite rum.
‘This is a puzzle. This will be exciting, so go on,’ he whispered to Rahul and Neha.
Let’s look into the bag now, the place where the secret rested for so many years. Seven small pouches, all identical, made of brown cloth, jute maybe. Each pouch carried markings in Japanese, a character of the Japanese alphabet, written in beautiful, broad, black brush strokes. The mouth of each pouch was closed with a slender, red silk rope. Intertwined with this rope, in each case, was a small card, with some writing on it. On the inside cover of the briefcase, which faced them now, were two words written in capital alphabets: TAKE ONE.
Neha and Rahul looked at each other. ‘What shall we do? Take one pouch, it says. Which one, Rahul?’
Rahul felt a couple of the pouches with his thumb and forefinger. He instantly knew what they contained. Of course, he told himself, what else could they contain.
‘Neha, these pouches have coffee beans in them. Coffee beans packed by the monk himself. Let’s think carefully.’
‘Think. Think. Both of you think. This is a big treasure, don’t miss it,’ said RG. He sipped his mug of coffee and started thinking too.
Suddenly, there was too much thinking going on in the room, that too all at once. If there was a measure for the amount of thinking, like kilograms or metres or something similar, then we would have noted the quantum of thought to be almost explosive. In the absence of such a metric, Neha decided to rely on her instincts.
‘Stop, Rahul. This is coffee, you know it well. What is the first thing we do with coffee?’
‘We drink it.’
‘No, no. Even before we drink it, what do we do?’
‘We brew the coffee.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. What do you do first, when a cup of hot coffee is given to you?’
‘Oh, I smell the coffee. Inhale deeply and savour its aroma. That’s what I do.’
‘So, let’s follow our nose, Rahul. Let’s smell these pouches. I think that’s how we will be able to choose one.’
‘Good thought, Neha. You are the sniffer. You lead the way.’
‘Go ahead, Neha,’ RG said encouragingly.
Neha picked up the first pouch, loosened the red rope to create an opening, stuck her nose in and smelt the beans. The smell came as a sharp whiff and she felt a sense of relaxation seep into her. She suddenly remembered a news item she had recently read, according to which the aroma of coffee beans helped relieve stress caused by sleep deprivation and lack of sexual activity.
She picked up the second pouch. Here, there was a distinctive smell of jackfruit. Yes, this was coffee grown in the hinterland of jackfruit trees. There are a lot of jackfruits in these parts, loved by the elephants.
Neha then moved to the third pouch. She had to smell these beans twice before she could make out the aroma—a hint of pepper and, again, warm mustiness. Coffee intergrown with pepper vines.
But it was on the fourth pouch that Neha struck gold. As soon as she put her nose in, she smelt the nutty aromas that both of them had encountered so often over the past few days. A deep, walnutty aroma that went straight into the depths of her nose and reminded her of the old woman and the pink beans, the fuzzy coffee cups on the verandah on the bungalow, and, most recently, the mysterious happenings in Mayaso Coffee Shop in Tokyo.
Neha, the expert sniffer and olfactory genius, had found the pouch of coffee that they had to pick. She took a small jump, did a spontaneous waltz and held up the pouch.
‘Rahul, I have it here. Right here, right here.’
‘How did you make it out?’
‘This has the wonderful aroma of walnut. The same smell that has followed us everywhere. That’s why it has followed us. This is what we were meant to find.’
She handed over the pouch to Rahul. He smelt it too. Yes, of course! Yes, yes, yes! This was it. He felt the jute; it was soft and firm. Then, he saw the card attached to the pouch and began reading the words written on it. Words written with turquoise-blue ink in very precise calligraphic script:
Three shrines of coffee have I now foreseen, three Goddesses that nurture our love for the bean. From river to ocean, each shows you the way. Find me these shrines, and then will I say: Here’s my treasure, let it fill up your day.
He first read it to himself and then loudly. What could this rhyme possibly mean? Clearly, it was some sort of a puzzle. What exactly are shrines of coffee, and who are these goddesses? How would these shrines show them the way to this treasure? To begin with, how would they find these shrines? Where in the world would they go? What was the great treasure that the coffee monk Saito had left behind?
Finally, Pandian spoke. He added a formal note by giving his grand moustache a twirl. ‘Ayya, Amma, you can take the card and the pouch you have selected. My master had instructed me to tell you that. Take it with you, the blessings of my master are with you. Oh, and by the way, I should not forget. He asked me to tell you two things after you have selected the pouch. One, you should know that coffee was his first love. He believed that coffee could change the world. He also asked me to tell you that India was his second big love. He loved our people, he travelled a lot across our country and when he lived here he brought great happiness to the coffee plantations all around. I hope you fulfil what he had in mind and I hope you find his treasure. Ayya, Amma, vanakkam.’
Exactly at that point, they heard a commotion erupt outside Pandian’s front door. They could hear fists banging hard on the door. Rahul listened but he could not understand the language, even as the shouting, screaming and banging were clearly audible. Once again, before anyone could react, there were loud knocks. It was evident that the old wooden door would collapse under this sudden and rather vicious attack.
Pandian walked up to the door and threw it open. Outside stood three local villagers, amongst them there was Krishnappa, a burly man from the immediate neighbourhood. He spoke, ‘Who is this strange ruffian, Pandian? Do you know him? He says he will destroy the houses in this town if his treasure is not given to him. He says that there is a stolen treasure in your house and bad people are now searching for it. Your house of all places? Is he mad? Where has he come from, this fancy dress idiot?’
He pointed to a totally bald man with spectacles standing a short distance away. The man was wearing some sort of a strange, short, blue gown, tied at the waist with a red cloth band. He was also wearing a blue
headband. On his chest was a long necklace with a large, square-shaped wooden pendant. He was surrounded by a few villagers who were determined to pin him down. Astonishingly, he held a sword in one hand.
Krishnappa went on, ‘He came from nowhere, running down our main road with this ridiculous sword. He spoke in poor, slow English, but we understood what he said. And then, he threatened us by running up and down, waving his sword, and it became clear that he wanted to break into your house. Do you know him, Pandian? Is he a relative of that yellow monk you served on the plantation? What audacity does this man have to come to our village and threaten all of us?’
Pandian looked hard, but he had never seen this man before. A few strange visitors from Japan had come to his master’s bungalow over the years when the monk was alive, but not this man. None bearing a sword. He gulped and said nothing.
Then Neha spoke, ‘Rahul, I know who that is. That is one of the Yamamoto brothers. One of the two guys who took us to that strange graveyard in Tokyo. It surely looks like him!’
Rahul looked closely and, yes, it was him! It was the man who had introduced himself as Takahira Yamamoto in the Mayaso Coffee Shop. What was he doing here in this small village in India? What sort of a dangerous mess had they got themselves into?
*
It was indeed Takahira Yamamoto, the man from Tokyo. Though he was surrounded by at least twenty villagers, he was entirely unfazed. He stared back at them, silently and sullenly. Then, in a dramatic gesture, he brandished his sword, held it high above his head and spun it around two times. This was mainly for effect because the circle of people appeared to be closing in on him. The villagers, alarmed by this unannounced swinging of the sword, retreated a little but continued to surround him, this time in a more spread out circle. They would not let this mad man from somewhere, who knows where, run amok all over their village.
Takahira looked out beyond the circle of villagers. His gaze stopped at Rahul and Neha, who were standing at the door of Pandian’s house. It was the young man and woman he had first met at Mayaso, as instructed. He had tracked them down successfully to this village, to this very house. Takahira, you are on the right track. This young man and woman have been brought to my brother and me by destiny. I am blessed by the spirits themselves. I will follow them, my dear beloved Father, and I will find what I need to find.
From within his garment, he took out a small cloth pouch. He inhaled deeply from it. The gentle aroma of summer coffee, an aroma originally sourced from Mayaso Coffee Shop, swam into his head. It was the same aroma that had shown him the way here in the first place. He put his sword back in his sheath. He bowed deep to the villagers who were surrounding him. ‘I go back to my place now as I find what I came for,’ he said to them in slow and broken English. And then, very quietly, he briskly walked through the startled circle of villagers, right down the end of the main road of Suntikoppa. Before Rahul, Neha or anyone else could react, he got into a waiting car, a smart orange Tata Nexon, and quietly drove away.
12
Still standing in Pandian’s house, with the selected pouch of coffee beans in his hand, Rahul was perplexed by this sudden turn of events. He was also concerned about this bald Japanese man who had randomly appeared and then disappeared. Why was Takahira Yamamoto stalking them? Had he put his own life, and Neha’s too, in danger by impulsively coming out to Pandian’s house in search of some unknown treasure that may have no meaning for them at all? Should they return to Mumbai immediately, happy with their truncated holiday, and put this entirely unnecessary adventure safely behind them?
‘Pandian, too much is happening here, and too fast. I need to sit down and think. Can you give us a nice cup of coffee?’
Pandian was delighted to fulfil the request. He took the greatest possible pride in his coffee. He was a master in the art of making south Indian filter coffee, one he had perfected while working with the monk on Edobetta plantation for over four decades. ‘Ayya, I will make you the finest kaapi you have ever tasted. Give me just ten minutes.’
He took out his old brass filter from a cupboard in his kitchen. The filter was given to him by his father, and he used it only on very special occasions. This metal device consisted of two cylinders, one placed on top of another. The top cylinder was pierced at the bottom and resembled a sieve. This cylinder also held a sort of pressing disc with a long, flat brass handle.
Pandian then opened a tin box that held fresh coffee powder. The aroma immediately wafted through the room. It was magnificent, full of warm notes that suffused the air and stimulated the senses beautifully and instantly. It was so enthralling that Neha took a deep breath to capture and lock the aromas deep within her lungs.
These aromas developed during the roasting process, which Pandian carried out carefully on an iron pan placed on the wood stove in his own home. These days very few people had the patience and skill to roast their own coffee beans at home, but Pandian insisted. He had learnt from the monk that careful roasting of beans helps develop over 800 different and delicious aroma compounds that blend together to offer a beautiful cup of coffee. He knew that dark roasting, for its deep and slightly burnt flavour, was best suited for the strong south Indian kaapi that he loved. He was also aware of the exact temperature and duration which gave it the perfect roast. For him, it had always been a labour of love, the roasting.
He carefully put six teaspoons of these roasted ground beans into the top cylinder of the filter, squeezed the disc down, twisted it a little, affixed this cylinder to the bottom one and added boiling water to the brim in the top cylinder. Then, he put a lid on top. Slowly, over the next few minutes, the brewed coffee decoction would drip into the bottom cylinder in the form of dense, brown drops of strong, concentrated coffee. This decoction was typically stronger than the Italian espresso, but unlike the espresso which was always drunk in a black dollop, it would usually be consumed only after adding hot milk and sugar. It has, in fact, been described as the nectar of Coorg.
‘Ayya, this coffee comes from the plantation next to this town, Suntikoppa estate. Actually, our town takes its name from this estate. This coffee is special because it grows in an estate that is home to three beautiful birds: the Malabar grey hornbill, the spotted dove and the drongo. They are our own birds and they look after this coffee for us.’
Pandian now detached the lower cylinder. Rahul and Neha could see that the strong, black coffee decoction had now filled up nearly to the brim. Once again, the heavenly whiff of smoky, malty, vanilla-like coffee floated all around them in a delicious haze.
‘How much sugar should I add, Ayya and Amma?’ asked Pandian. They requested a spoon each. Both Rahul and Neha liked a tinge of sweetness, but not to a point where it overwhelmed the bitterness of the coffee. The sweet and bitter flavours had to sit in balance with each other for a perfect cup.
They heard a whisper in their ears. RG again was ensuring that his presence was not forgotten. ‘Drink the coffee. Savour the coffee. Pandian’s coffee is the best there is here. I can still feel it on my tongue even after so many years. It will give you the answers, oh yes, it will.’
They sat down on the sofa chairs and sipped the coffee. Pandian, now the coffee master, kept standing and observing their expressions closely. In the first sip, Rahul felt the smooth, thick coffee roll over his tongue, the milk and sugar in a wonderful medley with the bitter coffee brew. He thought to himself, this first sip is even more beautiful than the first hint of an orgasm that is unstoppably on its way. He didn’t know why that random thought occurred to him just then, but it did. He looked at Neha, who was enjoying her own coffee, and realized that this comparison was foolish and incorrect. Nothing, not even the best coffee in the world, could remotely match up to making love to her. And I know why, he told himself. It struck him then that this was no time for such leisurely musings; they had more urgent things at hand.
A couple of sips of good coffee always had the effect of making him think. He held up the pouch and read the card once a
gain:
Three shrines of coffee have I now foreseen, three goddesses that nurture our love for the bean. From river to ocean, each shows you the way. Find me these shrines, and then will I say: Here’s my treasure, let it fill up your day.
With the warm filter coffee surging through his gut, he found that all his earlier doubts and hesitation about the danger they were facing were melting away.
‘Neha, this is our own exciting adventure. Let’s not quit now. Who knows when something like this will happen again in our lives? Let’s go after the treasure, whatever and wherever it is. I think we are destined to be the finders of this treasure. Why else would all these things be suddenly happening to us? Let’s not worry about bald Japanese men and other aimless distractions. They will come and go. Come on, let’s move and solve this puzzle. This is about coffee and we love coffee, don’t we? Are you with me, Neha?’
Rahul looked at Neha and held her hand. The coffee-induced pleasure was visible in her eyes. She looked back at him and squeezed his hand. ‘Yes, Rahul. Count me in.’
RG tapped Rahul gently on the shoulder. ‘Count me in too,’ he said.
*
They thanked Pandian and left his house with the pouch of old coffee beans and the card attached to it. Rahul added as they left, ‘Pandian, your filter coffee was the best. Even if we don’t find your master’s treasure, the memory and taste of your coffee is a treasure we are taking with us. What a medley of rich flavours you have created in a single cup, my dear friend. God be with you.’
After they left, Pandian bowed to a framed photograph of his master, the Japanese monk Saito. ‘Master, I have finally finished the big task you left me so many years ago. Thank you, master, for bringing these young people to my humble abode before I breathe my last. I pray that they find the big treasure of coffee which you have left behind. I pray for them because I think they love coffee very much, just like you and me. Both the young man and the woman, how they enjoyed my little cup of filter coffee. I hope they will be back here soon.’