An Extreme Love of Coffee

by Harish Bhat

  Rahul kept the three keys together on the bed. They made for a pretty picture and he photographed them using his mobile phone camera. Maybe a nice snap for Instagram on a later date, after all this stuff was behind them, he thought.

  Two of the keys looked the same, pale brass, somewhat ancient-looking, and with similar Japanese markings. Neha looked at them carefully. They were similar, but not identical. Different characters from the Japanese script, she thought.

  The third key was entirely different. It was made of steel and was marked with the number ‘215’. It looked far more modern and Indian. There was a small paper tag attached to it with twine. The tag simply said, ‘This one is for you. Ask Pandian.’

  Rahul looked at Neha. H. Jerome Pandian, the old man with the grand moustache who had served the Japanese monk loyally for several decades. The man who had asked them to choose one pouch from many and got them rolling on this grand coffee adventure. RG had told them that this was the man who knew all the monk’s secrets. No wonder they had to ask him about this key as well. That would mean a long journey once again, to the land of coffee, Coorg, and to the small town of Suntikoppa where Pandian lived.

  *

  But before that, Rahul had the film shoot coming up in just six days. He had to be back in Mumbai for that; Haroon would not tolerate his absence. And he had the Japanese Yamamotos to deal with; they would be there for the shoot too, insisting on getting back their family treasure.

  Actually, who knew! Japanese intruders could walk into their hotel room right now, attack them with fancy samurai swords and take the keys away. After that elephant attack near Mangalore, it seemed as if anything was possible. They may have been stalking them all the way here in Copenhagen. He walked up to the door of their room and bolted it using the security lock they normally used at night.

  ‘Neha, let’s sit down for a moment and think. Why has our monk left us these three keys, two with Japanese markings and one with this note in English? And, listen, just because you could not kiss me a few minutes ago does not mean you should not do so now.’

  ‘That’s easily done, Rahul. I would love to.’ With this, she walked across to him, held him by the waist and kissed him on the lips. It was a deep, lingering kiss where their lips were locked together for at least a couple of minutes. Both of them used that moment of intimacy to reflect on each other. They felt good about where they had reached. Was this adventure about discovering Indian coffee, or searching for treasure, or was it about finding themselves or each other, Neha wondered. At that very instant, she found herself drawn into an even tighter embrace, with Rahul’s firm hands on her back. For the next hour, coffee, monks, keys and Japanese intruders were far from their minds.

  Later, Rahul looked at the coffee beans scattered on the bed, many of which were now crushed.

  ‘Let’s sit down and think, Neha. Why were these keys here? What should we do with them? What treasure chests will they open, and where are these chests?’

  The walnutty aroma from the crushed beans had enveloped them. These were old beans, many of which had broken down instantly under the intense, shifting weight of Rahul and Neha’s bodies. This familiar, magical aroma fuelled their discussion as it found its way deep into the recesses of Rahul’s mind. Suddenly, Rahul found himself thinking fluently, with complete clarity. It was as if he was cutting through all the haze, walking straight through all the twists into a strange twilight zone. It was just like when he sat down, all by himself, to write those beautiful film scripts for Nidra Hair Oil and Nippon Springlove mattresses. Those stories had come out of nowhere, like the thoughts flooding his mind now.

  Rahul vividly remembered the two dusky girls who had appeared in front of him at his favourite Starbucks café in Mumbai. Then there was the graveyard conversation in Tokyo. He recalled the desire of the coffee monk, conveyed through the words of H. Jerome Pandian and RG, both of whom had known the monk well during his lifetime. There were also the Japanese stalkers and the threats from the Yamamoto brothers. And who could forget the delicious, unique Indian coffees that Neha and he had tasted and marvelled over during the past few weeks, coffees they had never known about earlier. Clearly, he had discovered those coffees only because of the monk’s clues in their chase for the unknown treasure. And now, finally, there were these three keys: two of them presumably of Japanese origin, and one local-looking key with a specific message.

  All these memories and many more came rushing to Rahul, rapidly, without a break. Like waves on a sea shore, one commencing even before another dissolved, the memories washed on to his mind like fresh foam. He even thought that he could hear the voice of the monk, acting as a narrator for all these memories but from afar where no one could be seen. Rahul’s eyes were shut in restless bliss all this while. And then there came a moment. Maybe not a moment really, but a sharp point of inflection, where all the waves stopped, and it became very clear to him what the monk wanted them to do. There was no more ambiguity.

  Clarity can often be elusive, for very long periods of time. Then, it drops, plonks itself into the centre of your mind with no forewarning, when the brain is suffused with a multitude of thoughts that are seemingly leading nowhere, and some magic suddenly weaves all of them together. And when that happens, the mind feels totally free and relieved, which is how Rahul felt in that exact moment.

  ‘Neha, please sit right here and listen to me. I just heard the monk. Yes, I heard him myself. And here is what we should do.’

  For the next hour, Rahul carefully explained to Neha what his conclusion was and why. He spoke of recent events and about the coffee monk. Neha listened to him in total silence. She found the way he moved his hands to be charming, and she loved his wide open brown eyes as he took her through his long narrative. Neither of them moved because they were totally immersed in dissecting a story which was not entirely theirs, yet it belonged to them and them alone.

  Rahul concluded his monologue with one last, brief question: ‘Do you agree with all this, Neha?’

  Neha nodded her head, signalling her complete agreement. Rahul was right. There was sound logic in what he had said. But even if you cast away all the logic in the world, if the eventual conclusion is correct, then there needn’t be any qualms at all. Rahul’s conclusion felt just right.

  They knew what they had to do next. The key to the monk’s treasure was in their hands.

  *

  Meanwhile, elsewhere in Copenhagen, two Japanese men sat sipping their cappuccinos and staring pensively at their phones. They had seen Rahul and Neha go around the statue of the little mermaid, sit on the promenade drinking coffee in a relaxed way, and then disappear into their hotel room. A few hours later, they had seen the young couple rush towards the airport and board a flight to Mumbai. They had met no one in the city, picked up no parcel and done nothing to even remotely indicate that any treasure had been found. Had they missed something altogether?

  When Takahira Yamamoto telephoned his two men all the way from Tokyo, asking about what exactly had happened in Copenhagen, they mumbled a few inconclusive words and put down the phone after hearing his irritable and sharp rebuke. Unlike Rahul and Neha, they did not know what to do next. So, they decided to take an evening off from their fruitless pursuit and went partying with vengeance in the pulsating nightspots of the city. It did not take them long to get intoxicated. They were found in a state of stupor the next morning by the lifeguards on Bellevue Beach in Klampenborg.

  PART D

  THE MONK’S TREASURE

  28

  The big day had finally come. All arrangements were in place for the much-awaited film shoot for Nippon Springlove mattresses. The studios at Film City in Mumbai were buzzing with activity. Director Karthik Shah was contemplating a couple of final points in his usual thoughtful manner. There was tense anticipation in the air.

  An ornate bedroom, resembling one from an ancient Japanese palace, had been painstakingly replicated. The walls were wooden with light-coloured paintings depict
ing a few slim, petite geishas meandering their way seductively through a rock garden. One woodcut painting behind the bed showed Mount Fuji with its famous snow-clad peak. It could not get more Japanese than that.

  At one end of the room, a large, shiny piece of armour hung on the wall for visual effect. This was done to make it loud and clear to the viewer that this was the castle of the shogun himself and not some commoner or randomly chosen aristocrat. There was no mistake about that. Next to the armour sat a big, brass treasure chest with oriental carvings on it.

  At the other end of the room was a long black scroll with Japanese script inked on it in white, running down its length. The inspiration for the entire set had loosely come from two famous castles of Japan—Edo and Himeji—with significant local improvization from the ingenious set-makers of Mumbai.

  Everything had been carefully supervised by Haroon, head of Maximum Minimum Mumbai (Triple M, for short) advertising agency. He left nothing to chance and sought perfection. He was happy that his scriptwriter, Rahul, was now back from his long holiday, even if it was with some weird stories about flying ghosts, Buddhist monks and pink coffee beans, which he had begun narrating somewhat inchoately. Haroon had listened initially, mainly to humour Rahul. But it went on and on, so he suggested that they continue over a beer after the shoot was over. Haroon was sure that all of it was mad stuff, figments of Rahul’s imagination.

  Such quirks come with creativity, Haroon thought to himself. One thing is clear. Triple M needs Rahul’s creative juices to flow, so I can put up with a few weird and painful stories to make this possible.

  Rahul’s creative juices were indeed flowing at that very minute as he stood speaking to Karthik Shah. He finished discussing the script, featuring the shogun and his concubines, and most importantly, the patented Nippon Springlove mattress.

  Karthik was happy because he had never directed a Japanese-themed film before.

  ‘I imagined this shogun as very tall and athletic, Karthik. Always on the move, active all the time with lots of energy, be it on horseback or foot, carrying his swords and daggers lightly. That’s the spirit we should capture. That’s why this man needs a firm mattress to rest his fatigued body on at the end of a long, tough day. The touch of the mattress needs to refresh him instantly because he needs all his energy at night too,’ Rahul said with a wink.

  Karthik nodded. He liked Rahul’s perspective. Both of them saw two Japanese actors entering the room—the tall shogun and the slim concubine. The shogun was wearing warrior armour of samurai origin over a knee-length brown kimono. Also, he had a strange sort of headgear on. He had brought all this with him from Japan.

  The concubine was wearing a red kimono with large flowers printed all over it and a plunging neckline. Her most distinguishing feature, however, was her small and dainty face, now painted white in traditional geisha style. The only non-period part of their costumes was the familiar white and green Starbucks coffee cups that they were carrying.

  Rahul saw the coffee cups, the Japanese actors and said, ‘The shogun’s love for coffee. Way back in Japan. That’s where all this started, Karthik. The story of the shogun and his monk.’

  Karthik did not know what to make of this sudden and rather muddled statement. But before he could ask, Haroon joined them, accompanied by a short, portly man clad in milk-white trousers, an equally spotless white shirt, and most impressively, white leather shoes. He had a very round face and an equally round bald head, all shaped like a perfect globe. Around his neck, he wore a thick gold chain.

  ‘Karthik, Rahul, meet Ram Prakash, the owner of Nippon Springlove Mattress Company. He has come here all the way from Mysore to see our film shoot. Ram Prakash is amongst the most famous upcoming entrepreneurs in Mysore. A very famous man.’

  Rahul wondered how someone like Ram Prakash could be ‘very famous’. But then this was the man giving them lots of money for the film, so he was certainly famous as far as Haroon and Rahul were concerned, wasn’t he? There may be other reasons for his fame in Mysore too. Actually, such a round face deserved to be famous in its own right. But before he could proceed on this random and useless line of thought, Ram Prakash clutched their hands and spoke excitedly.

  ‘What a wonderful script you have written, my friends. I loved it, loved it! It will make my excellent mattress very popular. We have the best mattress in the world, my friends. Your film will take it into a million homes. Wonderful, wonderful!’

  He smiled a very broad smile, one that displayed his white teeth that totally matched his trousers and shirt. Then he rubbed his hands together quickly as he imagined the sales peaking and all the money he would make.

  Rahul and Karthik smiled back at him and Rahul, for good measure, added, ‘Mr Ram Prakash, this film will send your sales zooming, Sir. Mattresses will fly through the roof. This is a sure-fire winner, Sir.’

  Such extreme confidence pleased Ram Prakash very much, so he clutched Rahul’s hands even harder while everyone else kept smiling.

  Haroon decided to break this smile fest. ‘We must start shooting soon. Everything is ready and we don’t want the Japanese actors getting tired. Mr Ram Prakash, here is a special seat for you. Right in front, Sir. You will see all the action today.’

  These were prescient words because immediately after he spoke, the action began.

  29

  The first scene to be shot was that of the shogun feeling the Nippon Springlove mattress and showing his delight at how firm it was. This was the director’s way of paying tribute to Ram Prakash, the man whose purse strings were funding this film and who was now on the sets for a while, seated comfortably in his special ringside chair.

  The Japanese actor patted his armour, touched the sword that hung by his hip and took a final sip of his Starbucks latte before proceeding to enact the scene. Haroon offered prayers and clapped the customary board.

  ‘May this be the finest advertising film in India. Yes, the best,’ he said loudly from the sidelines. ‘Now, here we go. Make sure you don’t leave the Starbucks cup in the frame. This is ancient Japan, my friends.’

  The moment he said this and clapped the board down with an unusually heavy smash, there was some commotion. Two Japanese men burst into the room. They were holding long, shiny swords. Both the men were totally bald and wore round, gold-rimmed spectacles. They were poised in a martial sort of way, almost ready to attack.

  For a moment, Karthik fancifully thought that they were samurais who had come after the beautiful Japanese actress. But Rahul recognized them immediately. It was the Yamamoto brothers: Takahira and Shinko.

  ‘Stop everything right now. Stop this shoot,’ shouted Takahira Yamamoto, raising his sword above his head. ‘We have been patient, Haroon. Very patient. Now, we ask you, once and for all: where is our treasure? Where is the treasure that belongs to our beloved father and our family?’

  ‘Yes, give us our treasure now,’ shouted Shinko with equal vehemence. ‘We have given you all our support. We narrated our entire story honestly to Rahul-san. We gave him the idea for this wonderful film, we told him the story of the coffee monk that set him off on his search and adventure.’

  Takahira continued, ‘And then we brought you the best Japanese actors for your film, all the way from Tokyo. In return, all we asked for is our family treasure. We know Rahul-san has been searching for our treasure for many, many days. It is our treasure. Give it to us! Now!’

  He swung his sword about, slicing a wide and impressive arc through the air.

  Karthik and the actor playing the shogun looked stunned. No one moved. There was silence for a complete minute. At that point, Ram Prakash, sipping his Starbucks coffee, stood up excitedly. ‘Mr Haroon, this was not part of the script that you discussed with me. But that does not matter. This must be a new scene you have added? Very dramatic, Mr Haroon. It looks wonderful. Let’s continue; I want to see what happens!’

  Shinko Yamamoto turned to Ram Prakash, looked him up and down and waved the sword at him direct
ly. ‘Shut up, you idiot, and sit down now. We are discussing the most important topic of our life, not your silly film script.’

  Ram Prakash had never been called an idiot before, but there’s always a first time to these nasty things. Now, looking at the sharp sword in front of him, he sat down immediately.

  Haroon spoke. ‘Takahira Yamamoto, I told you we would discuss your treasure after the film shoot was done. You had agreed to that. So, please, let’s proceed. We don’t have time to lose here.’

  Takahira’s response was immediate. ‘No more waiting, Haroon-san. We have waited and waited and waited. Our people have followed Rahul-san for so many days now. We suspect that he has our treasure. It belongs to my family; make no mistake about it. We want it now, right away. No more cheating, no more waiting, Haroon-san.’

  Haroon had hoped to give the Yamamoto brothers some nice Indian antiques as consolation to carry back to Japan. A brass treasure chest of Rajasthani origin had occurred to him as a good, solid choice. He had planned to assure them that Rahul would continue to search for their family treasure if they could provide some pointers on what it was. He had told himself that this sort of spin was likely to work with the Yamamotos. But things were not looking good now.

  Haroon looked at Rahul, who looked right back at him. While Rahul had spoken to him about ghosts and coffee after returning from his holiday, he hadn’t mentioned any discovery of the treasure.

  Takahira and Shinko moved menacingly towards Haroon and Rahul. Their swords were still raised. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a female voice spoke loudly and clearly.

  ‘Takahira and Shinko Yamamoto, turn around and face me. I have your treasure. By the grace of the gods who keep watch over Yanaka-reien, your treasure is safe, my friends.’