An Extreme Love of Coffee Read online

  Such praise meant limelight and more business. Haroon was particularly excited by a phone call he received from Ram Prakash, the founder of Nippon Springlove, an upcoming mattress manufacturer from Mysore.

  ‘Help me take Nippon Springlove to every Indian bedroom, Haroon. Do for me exactly what you did for Nidra Hair Oil. We have great mattresses backed by patented spring technology from Japan, the sort that helps you perform like a dream, sleep like a dream and have a flexible back like a dream. I have the exclusive licence for this technology from Yamamato himself, a specialist in bed springs. He has a cult following in Japan. But no one knows about us in India,’ he said wistfully.

  After a pause, he added, ‘If there’s anyone who can do this for us, it is you and Rahul. We’ll offer you not just a fixed fee but also a full 10 per cent of our sales revenues.’ They set up a meeting for the following month. Meanwhile, Ram Prakash sent them two king-sized Nippon mattresses to try out, which both Haroon and Rahul agreed was a particularly nice touch.

  Haroon was overwhelmed by all this and, in a rare moment of weakness, offered Rahul fifteen days of paid holiday as a reward. ‘Spend your time on some mountain or beach, Rahul. Go deep into a forest if you wish to. The creative mind needs nature and space and beer and wine. Go!’ Haroon didn’t forget to mention, ‘And while you are there, Rahul, think a little about an advertisement for Nippon Springlove. This deal can make us really rich, you know? Who in this tight-fisted world offers 10 per cent of his revenues? Imagine! 10 per cent!’

  Rahul sat back and thought about all this, happily anticipating a paid vacation, an important question weighing on his mind: Where should he go for an entire fortnight? He was back at his favourite Starbucks café. He had in front of him a small, bright red cup of espresso. Espresso had always been his beverage for solitary, quiet moments of celebration. A small sip of the thick black coffee, almost the thickest he had ever tasted, and all his senses came to life. He could hear his deep, silent breaths, clear and suffused with rich espresso aroma. Coffee was magic.

  No wonder the Italians loved their espresso—the coffee of the squeeze. It was the very essence of the bean, extracted within forty-five seconds under relentless pressure. Unlike human beings, coffee beans don’t cave in to unabating stress. When pressed to perform, they give their very best. What a nice idea! Definitely worth stowing away safely in memory for future use. Marketers and advertising film-makers should never throw ideas away.

  With his eyes shut, he savoured the viscous coffee, rolling it around just a little on his tongue. This time when he opened his eyes there were no long-haired, gorgeous women around. Instead, there was something else. On his table, next to his cup, was a small promotional brochure that someone from the café had placed there. It had pictures of ripe, red coffee berries and lush green plantations. Gorgeous bushes with broad leaves and trees with vines running up their trunks. He turned the pamphlet over to find elephants on the back, standing amidst the coffee bushes. There were a few interesting-looking birds with long multi-coloured beaks as well. What appealed to Rahul instantly was the presence of delicious and warm embrace of coffee everywhere. The brochure spoke about relaxing coffee holidays in Coorg, on the foothills of the Western Ghats, deep inside the home of Indian coffee.

  4

  ‘You want to go to Coorg for a holiday? Why Coorg of all places? Why not Turkey or Vietnam or Ladakh, or some cool place like that?’ Neha’s WhatsApp message had an inquiring tone, but Rahul could sense an undertone that was mildly, just mildly, complaining.

  ‘Well, let me think, Neha,’ Rahul typed back. He then followed that up with one of the most inspiring WhatsApp messages he would ever write. ‘Because coffee nourishes my soul, Neha, and Coorg is where it grows. Because the ripe, red coffee cherries can ignite magic in our hearts and we will see them down there in abundance. Because freshly roasted coffee, sipped right at the plantations, is a rare and beautiful experience. I believe it is where you and I can find what we really want, in our own little cups.’ As a final flourish, for good effect, he added, ‘Let’s have our coffee black as night, sweet as sin, in Coorg. That’s Neil Gaiman and me for you.’

  For two hours, there was no response from Neha, not even an emoji of acknowledgement. This was classic Neha. She was a disciplined food blogger who wrote every week without fail but was a little unreliable when it came to responding to a simple message. She was systematic and organized in most other aspects of her life—Rahul would readily admit to this—but terribly erratic when it came to personal correspondence.

  Rahul and Neha had been in a relationship for two years. Theirs was a reasonably compatible relationship, but one that had also seen its mild ups and downs and on-off phases. For the last few weeks, however, Rahul had the uncomfortable feeling that the relationship had plateaued, and may actually be headed towards a downward gradient if nothing new happened. He wondered if his recent love of coffee could spark something new here as well.

  Neha did reply eventually. It was a very short but clear message, ‘OK! Let’s go to Coorg, Rahul.’

  Rahul responded instantly and expansively, ‘I’m glad you are on board, Neha. I have a little brochure here that talks about Coorg and it looks really wonderful. The Kodava people, the Kaveri river, elephants and fruit bats, feasting, rice and pork, and lots of pure, fresh, coffee-laced air. And, of course, millions and millions of coffee beans. I have this fascination for coffee and I know you like it too. This holiday in Coorg will nurture our souls.’

  ‘Not sure about the nurturing of our souls, Rahul. But I could do with a simple break—as far away from Mumbai as I can get. And Coorg is pretty good. Seems quiet and calm and peaceful. So, let’s go.’

  Many months later, Neha would wonder why she had used those words and would remind herself how unexpected life can be.

  *

  The unexpectedness began suddenly; in the small town of Gonikoppal, where Rahul and Neha stopped for a quick break and a hot cup of coffee. Until then, their journey towards Coorg had been uneventful and smooth. They had flown to Bengaluru airport and then hired a taxi. The car ride was relatively silent but then the driver abruptly launched into a monologue as they entered Mysore.

  ‘Let me show you Mysore Palace. It’s only a small detour, Sir, as this is a historic city of palaces. Here is the famous palace of the Wadiyar dynasty. Take a look. We don’t need to get down from the car. This new palace was built where the old fort once stood, and after that there was the old palace which burnt down completely. I haven’t seen it, Ma’am, but believe me it was there; I have seen some photographs. I am also proud to tell you that my great-grandfather was one of the builders of this new palace. Look at how grand it is. It looks incredibly beautiful when it is lit up at night during the Dussehra festival. And guess what my great-grandfather found when he was digging to build the foundations of this palace? He found an old gold coin buried in the sand. Maybe it was from the old fort from centuries ago. This coin has been with our family ever since. It is a great coin because it brings unexpected adventure always and sometimes fortune too, if you hold and observe it closely. I can tell you that it has brought my family quite a lot of adventure and a little fortune here and there, from time to time. So, let me show it to you. I have it right here in my purse.’

  He took out a small coin with a hole in the centre and a visibly brass finish. ‘Here is the gold coin. Look at it, Ma’am, Sir. Hold it. Do you see anything odd?’

  Neha held the coin between her forefinger and thumb and then handed it over to Rahul. On one of the sides, Rahul spotted faded markings. He wasn’t sure what they were. The other side of the coin had a distinct engraving of a bush. ‘I think this is a coffee bush,’ Rahul said. ‘We are now very close to Coorg and maybe the kings of this place loved coffee too.’

  The driver put the coin back into his wallet. The air was tangibly sweet as they drove away from Mysore and towards Coorg. On both sides of the road was lush green vegetation that stretched on endlessly. And there w
ere forests too. Rahul slipped into a midday reverie imagining the beautiful advertisements he could create in this unspoilt land. Not too long after, they entered Gonikoppal.

  It was at a roadside coffee shop here that they encountered the strange elderly lady. It seemed, as she approached, that she had a million wrinkles on her face. She wore a brown, nondescript saree. A little bent, but walking quite firmly, she held a packet wrapped in a local Kannada newspaper.

  She came up to them, offered the packet to Rahul and said something long and involved. The driver was nice enough to translate. ‘She wants to sell you this packet for a hundred rupees. She says it contains magical coffee beans from deep inside the forests. She also added that only she knows where these special beans of magic can be procured, and they are available only for a few weeks during the misty winter.’

  The old woman piped up once again. They waited for her to finish and then the driver began to translate. ‘She says that when you drink coffee brewed from these beans, magical things happen, experiences that money cannot buy. She knows this because she has seen such wondrous happenings. She is offering these beans to you for a highly discounted price because she likes both of you. She says that as soon as she saw you here, she knew that you were made for each other—both your bodies and minds. For each other and forever, she says.’

  The last and somewhat intimate observation provoked Neha. ‘How does she know when we don’t know yet?’ she asked Rahul. But before Rahul could respond, the old woman launched into another long story that the driver happily narrated.

  ‘The last time she found these magical beans, deep inside the forest, was more than three years ago. She can spot them immediately, she says, because of their peculiar pink and purple shade. That is not the normal colour of ripe coffee beans, you know? The ripe beans are generally deep red and sometimes a nice shade of yellow but never pink and purple. She says she gifted these special beans to a plantation owner called Kariappa, who lives very close to this town. He was huge, a very large man who, the locals said, ate a lot of pork and drank copious amounts of brandy every day. But he was also an unhappy man because the coffee bushes on his plantation were constantly under attack from all sorts of pests, including a nasty borer. It didn’t help that his married life wasn’t in its best phase either, given his wife’s depression.

  ‘Kariappa paid this old woman two hundred rupees for these magical coffee beans. That’s what she claims, but I think it is very unlikely. I can tell you that people in these parts are very careful about their money. I doubt she got more than fifty rupees. Anyway, she says he made coffee from these special beans. He roasted and ground them, brewed the coffee and drank a big mugful one morning, hoping it would get rid of a particularly bad hangover. He also gave a cup to his wife and threw away the used coffee grounds on his plantations. Do you know what happened next?’

  The driver paused here for effect. He looked at the old lady, then at Rahul and Neha, and resumed, ‘What happened was totally unexpected, totally. His wife, that very evening, began dancing in the courtyard, full of joy and happiness, singing an old Hindi film song. Imagine this! Word got around quickly that Big Sir’s madam had recovered from her sadness. The old woman here says that Kariappa’s wife continues to be a very happy lady till this day. Apparently, at the last New Year’s dance at Planters’ Club, she danced the night away.’

  Neha was now engrossed in the story and bubbling with questions, ‘Did anything happen to the coffee bushes, the ones that weren’t flourishing, on Kariappa’s estate? I am sure something must have happened there.’

  ‘Yes’, said the driver, ‘something magical happened there too. The old lady is about to narrate this part of the story.’

  And so the story continued. ‘As you know, Kariappa had thrown out the used coffee grounds on his plantation, after making the coffee that his wife and he had consumed. That night, he saw two foxes at the very spot where the grounds had been discarded. He saw them licking the grounds and then running wild around the plantation. The next morning, the borer disease that had infested his coffee bushes had vanished. Totally out of sight. The workers who were asked to keep an eye out came up to Kariappa and told him that they were amazed at the miracle that had happened overnight.

  ‘Some of these workers then prostrated themselves at Kariappa’s feet. They declared him a god for having brought about this miracle, one that had never been seen before on the coffee plantations in that area. They prayed that he bring miracles to their families too. There were a variety of prayers that the workers put forward. This old woman heard them because she was there too. Someone prayed for a grandfather to be cured of his bad gout, which was troubling him and leaving him grumpy all the time. Another prayed to bless a small five-year-old girl with the power of speech because she had not yet learnt to talk. One even prayed to bless a struggling woman with the gift of fertility.

  ‘Kariappa, having woken up with a bad hangover that day after a particularly heavy night of spicy pork curry and bad brandy, was amazed but unfazed by these sudden prayers. His head was throbbing but he stared into the distance, and he listened. He offered his blessings quite generously to all the workers who had gathered there, waving his hands in benediction, and without holding back in any manner. Despite not being in any state to advise anyone, Kariappa meticulously blessed each person who put forth his or her prayers.

  ‘He then asked them whether they had seen any foxes running around, and when they said they had not, he asked them to go away quietly, leave him alone and wait for their prayers to be fulfilled. The old woman says most of those prayers did come true, but not all. She says only the believers, those who believed fervently, saw their wishes come true. An orange tree grew at the spot where the coffee grounds had been discarded. She can show us this tree later in the day. But now, she asks again, do you wish to buy her coffee beans?’

  Rahul Kamath, the writer of advertising stories and creator of the now-famous Nidra Hair Oil film, was amazed with this story about Kariappa, the magic coffee beans and the sad wife who turned happy forever. He wasn’t sure if it was fact or fiction, but what an amazing treasure trove of stories anyway that he could put to use in the future. Amazing, really. This old lady was a superb storyteller, and their driver, bless him, a wonderful translator. Rahul, however, suspected that the driver had spiced up the story in translation, adding his own bits and pieces here and there.

  ‘Let’s buy these coffee beans,’ Rahul said to the driver. ‘Here’s two hundred rupees for the old lady. Give her the money; tell her we are very grateful.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Sir,’ the driver advised him. ‘She will spend it on alcohol immediately.’

  ‘Just go ahead,’ Rahul said. ‘Give her the money and give me this packet of beans. Let us leave this place before it gets dark and those foxes come around.’

  The old lady counted the money and blessed them, not once but repeatedly, inspired perhaps by the great Kariappa’s generous blessings. ‘You will achieve, with these beans,’ she said, ‘what you have set out to achieve, although you may not know it yet.’

  Rahul and Neha drove away from Gonikoppal on that peaceful afternoon carrying with them an exciting but dangerous packet that promised adventure and magic.

  5

  In a couple of hours, they arrived at Cottabetta Bungalow, located on top of a hill tucked deep within the coffee plantations of Pollibetta. There was a sudden chill in the air as they drove up the final stretch and the sprawling old bungalow came into view, chimney first. Then, a couple of hens crossed the road. Finally, the grey brick structure, with its vast verandah was visible. Serene, calm, picture-perfect.

  Rahul had booked their stay at Cottabetta because he had loved the story of the place. This was once home to the director of the largest coffee plantation company in the area. He could almost see the big and powerful British coffee planters, and later the Indian directors, with stern expressions, big moustaches and khaki trousers, sipping strong coffee in the morning and even
stronger whiskey in the evening. The first coffees of the season would have come to this bungalow, to be roasted here, examined with care and consumed with satisfaction, before they were eventually traded with the rest of the world, with the roasters of Italy and the cafés of Istanbul.

  These thoughts had occupied Rahul’s mind for the past couple of hours as they drove past acres and acres of coffee bushes and tall teak trees with green pepper vines snaking their way up. Would they see pictures of these great coffee planters and directors, perhaps even hear stories of their hardy lives and colourful adventures? Would they meet some old-timers with a taste for both coffee and gossip, who could be their guides to the rich history of this coffee paradise? What wonderful new coffees would he drink and enjoy here?

  Neha, on the other hand, had nodded her way through most of the drive, lulled to sleep, no doubt, by the sweet coffee they had consumed at Gonikoppal. The bag of coffee beans that they had bought from the old woman lay by her side. Rahul was tempted, more than once, to bite into one of the beans, but he held himself back. Let’s roast the beans first when we get to Cottabetta, he told himself.

  They were greeted by two turbaned staff members when they reached the verandah of Cottabetta Bungalow. One of them was an old man with a long, wrinkled face and an expansive moustache. The other was a thin, strapping lad. Both of them were dressed in the same white and red uniform. The old man spoke in halting English.