COUNTDOWN TO LAUNCH ........... SEVEN DAYS TO GO

 

The inspiration of the coffee estates of South India.

 

My time in the coffee estates in the hills of South India were a beautiful inspiration as I wrote The Judge’s Wife. Here peace comes dropping slow. I hope you enjoy this extract from the novel where Vikram Fernandes, on the balcony of his apartment in busy Bangalore city longs to be back among the Robusta coffee plants and his plantation. My time in the coffee estate in Chickmagalur will be forever in my heart. Ann 

 

The rising clamour of the city encircled Vikram, sapping his energy. How he longed to be back in Chikmagalur, where the air was heavy with stillness and workers concentrating stooped low; where the mountains high and strong, held up blue umbrellas of mist to the sky. The orange flash of a rat snake flitting across a path, the sound of chopping and pans on the fire in the kitchen as the cook prepared the food for the day, the low, far-off hum of conversation from the line of stone dwellings where the workers lived.

The family estate house was old and battered-looking, with stone walls and floors over which rugs were strewn to take away the sharpness of the cold in winter. Built to service the hectares of the coffee estate, it had changed little over the decades. The only obvious luxury was the early-morning coffee ceremony, after Vikram had gathered his workers and sent them off for the day, his instructions ringing in their ears. Thick black coffee and steaming-hot milk were poured into small china cups from tall silver coffee pots. Vikram’s father had insisted on this ritual and his son saw no reason to change it. The china cups, first brought to the house by his mother, had seen better days and were chipped in places, but Vikram never had the heart to throw them out. Instead, he ordered his servants to handle with care, and they did, because nobody wanted to upset the boss.

How he wanted to be in his big old chair on the covered porch at Chikmagalur, where he could look out over the drying grounds and terraces, past the tall trees giving pools of shade, to watch the hills and clouds fight for the sky. This was where peace dropped slow. Whether the sun baked the ground or the monsoon rain spattered or tore down on top of them, Chikmagalur was his place apart.

His favourite spot in the bungalow was the sitting room, where he could sit quietly, the green hills on guard. The furniture was dowdy, the circular brass table in the middle gone green in places from old coffee stains, where he had spilled his cup too many times as he reached across for his newspaper. In one corner was a stack of weeks-old newspapers about a foot high, on the walls were photographs, worn, creased in places and sepia-brown.

He wanted to be there when the white flowers in the Robusta coffee plants unfurled, putting on a show, breaking into the mist, which clung in gossamer swirls to the trees. There was nothing as lovely as when the first blossom revealed itself: a reminder of the frail beauty of life, before the monsoon rains battered the hills, flooded the roads and cut off the mountains from each other.

“Uncle, your coffee.”

Rosa stood in the doorway holding a tray with a steel beaker, steam curling away from it.

“You were deep in thought?”

“I was thinking of the flowers in bloom at Chikmagalur. I long to breathe them in, fill my nostrils with their heavy scent. You never liked it there, my Rosa.”

“Uncle, there was nothing to do.”

Vikram settled himself deeper in his chair. “Boredom, the affliction of the young, loneliness, the affliction of the old.” Blowing on his coffee, he paused for a few seconds before noisily slurping it.