Coconut Spirit

Coconut Spirit

My musings on my recent visit to see the tigers and other wildlife in Periyar National Park were interrupted by the driver of the truck I was thumbing a lift in. He had told me his name was Ajay and I’d told him mine was Owen; and that was that. I was sitting on a pile of grubby cushions but was grateful for the lift, and at least I could see through a rain-splattered gap on the smudgy windscreen.

Apart from me, Ajay was hauling a substantial load of young green coconuts. I was going as far as I could with him towards Kochi Airport and my flight back to Heathrow. I had been travelling for days now, taking time out from my freelance IT job in London and needing to be on my own. Why Kerala? Well, I’d pinpricked a map with my eyes closed and found it underneath the hole – a province in the south west of India.

And I didn’t want to go home.

The scenery was magnificent, with rolling verdant hills and freshwater lakes, plantations of tea, spices and coconuts. There was protected wildlife and stunningly coloured birds; I doubted that even the most talented artist would be able to produce the vivid hues of their plumage.

Ahead of us was a Mahindra Maxima truck, crawling along on tyres that were facing outwards.

Ajay banged his fists on the steering wheel, which I didn’t consider was a wise thing to do if it was anywhere near as fragile as the rest of his cab.

But my musings drifted away like smoke on a breeze as I found myself staring at the most beautiful young Indian woman I had ever seen. Correction; the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was sitting in the back of the truck, on purpose I surmised, as the cab window showed the passenger seat was empty.

She saw me looking at her and smiled. She had smoky dark eyes and long blue-black hair pulled forward in a single plait.

Suddenly, and to my horror, the Mahindra hit a pothole and began to lurch wildly. The woman instantly tried to grasp a piece of rope swinging from the cab’s roof, finding nothing but air. I sat and watched helplessly as the truck began to lean precariously to one side.

Ajay yelled something in Hindi that I didn’t understand. He waved his arms madly and banged the steering wheel again but that couldn’t stop the Mahindra’s driver losing control, and in heart-stopping slow motion the truck left the road and began to slide sideways down the steep slope of a tea plantation.

The Mahindra rolled once, then half-rolled, and thankfully stopped. It ended up on its roof with a front wheel spinning wildly. The others were missing. I could see the driver hanging out of the window; he was elderly, with white hair and a beard. I couldn’t see the woman.

“Stop!” I yelled, my hand already clutching the door handle. I winced as Ajay jabbed several times at the brake with his sandalled foot, somehow managing to keep control as the truck slewed to a halt, his cargo of coconuts bouncing around like beach balls.

I jumped down from the cab and noticed an old brown coconut, quite unlike the young green ones, rolling down the slope towards the overturned Mahindra. I followed its path, skidding down a furrow between dense tea plants.

As I reached the stricken vehicle, I saw the young woman crawling out from underneath, one hand in front of the other, slim wrists grasping at plants for purchase. I rushed to her, shouting, “Are you hurt? Sorry! Do you speak English?”

She looked up at me, brown eyes dropping tears, “Yes, I speak English. But my grandfather, please.”

As hastily and as carefully as I could, I pulled her free of the truck and made sure she was comfortable before stumbling through the plants to the driver’s side. Her grandfather was still hanging out of the smashed window, trembling fingers fumbling with the door handle. I tried to push it down it but it wouldn’t budge so I looked around for something to smash it with, and spotted the coconut.

I picked it up. It was hard – and had eyes. Eyes? I stared at it and it stared back. I shook my head. Get a grip! It was dark brown and roughly textured with strings of coarse hair, quite unlike the other green ones.

Strange. I wondered again where this one had come from yet these thoughts were split seconds; it had a job to do. I tried to nudge the elderly man to one side but he was slumped over the door handle, nor could I get my arm past him to reach inside the truck and open it from the inside. He was also struggling to breathe, his chest heaving and his hands gripping his shirt. I knew I needed to free him quickly so I muttered an apology as I pushed him firmly to one side.

I brought the coconut down hard on the driver’s door handle, fingers crossed that the door would release. If it had jammed or was locked, then I’d have to think of another plan. The handle loosened so I smashed the coconut down on it again, and again. At last! The handle dropped onto the soil and the door clicked open an inch. The man pushed his feet against the driver’s seat to open it further and I was able to pull him free. He clung to me while I propped him up against the truck.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

He pressed his fingertips together in prayer. “Another narrow escape! Thank you.”

I looked over my shoulder, my heart skipping a beat when I saw the young woman watching us. She was perfection.

She smiled. “I think that maybe you are a hero. My name is Nikita.”

Meanwhile, Ajay was practically spitting blood as he stood at the top of the slope and began to shout, pointing at his wrist and waving his arms madly.

“Well, he could have helped,” I remarked. I looked at Nikita and was astonished to see her amusement, thinking that she could have been killed.

She waved at Ajay. “He will give us a lift, it is the Indian way.” She raised her eyebrows, “Well, he had better do.”

She pulled her grandfather towards her and hugged him. I saw how affectionate they were and for some reason I felt humbled.

“He is fine,” she told me.

We began to make our way back up the slope, supporting her grandfather firmly and treading carefully in case we slipped backwards.

“What about your truck?” I asked, reaching for my cell phone. The battery was flat.

She smiled. “Don’t worry. Your driver can take us to the next village. We will make a phone call there.”

I looked back at the Mahindra and spotted the coconut lying on the ground.

“Just a moment,” I told them, “I need to get something.”

When I returned to Ajay’s truck I found that Nikita’s grandfather had opted to ride in the back with the coconuts, which I understood.

An hour or so later – I couldn’t be sure exactly as I was too engrossed with Nikita sitting at my side and never wanting the journey to end – we arrived at a village.

“Welcome to Kumarakom. This is where I live…” Nikita told me, “…with my grandfather.” She inclined her head and I thought she seemed ashamed until I recalled that Indian women tend to marry quite young; I guessed she was in her late twenties.

Ajay was banging the steering wheel again. “Too much traffic! Go, go!”

I couldn’t see what was upsetting him, until Nikita giggled and pointed to a man on a rusty bicycle in front of us, pedalling along the middle of the road.

I grinned. “Ajay, thanks for the lift, it has been an experience.” I pushed a note into his hand and he stared at it in genuine surprise. Five hundred rupees.

This time he patted the steering wheel as if it were a pet. He turned and shook his head gently at me, “That is most generous. May all the Hindu gods be with you, my friend.”

He pulled over and Nikita took my arm. ”I need to make that telephone call…” She looked away shyly, “…and you will come in for tea and something to eat?”

My flight, I thought.

“I’d love to,” I said.

We all climbed down from Ajay’s truck. The air was fresh and from what I could see, the area looked intriguing. It was well, very watery. Everywhere I looked there were rivers, or canals maybe. There were several houseboats moored along the banks and I followed Nikita and her grandfather as we headed towards one. Like other places I had visited, it was deliciously green and I glimpsed colourful birds. I truly believed I had reached my nirvana.

The houseboat was small. On the deck, under an awning, were three wickerwork chairs and a table covered with coconuts. Green ones, brown ones, some cut into halves to dry out. There were jars of juice, milk and oil. I stared.

“Owen?” Nikita took my hand. I turned to her. She took my breath away and I couldn’t speak.

“You see, my grandfather is getting old, and… well, he is all I have. My parents died in a car accident.” She grimaced. “There are many in India.”

She gestured at the table. “My new business! I am making lots of things from coconuts.” I must have looked puzzled as she giggled and patted my backpack. I understood what she meant and I took out the old brown coconut that I’d used to rescue her grandfather.

I handed it to her, feeling its roughness again. It had a dent in one side where it had done its work. She held it up. We crack them open you see. She pointed at the lifelike ‘eyes’ at the bottom of the coconut. We go in like so. She took one of the skewers from a nearby table.

I yanked it out of her hand, “No, don’t!”

The skewer fell to the floor and her hand flew to her chest in alarm. “What is wrong? I was going to show you how we prepare the coconuts.”

I picked up the skewer and handed it back to her, feeling foolish. “Yes, I know. I mean I really do want to see what you do. Here.”

I took a coconut from the table and handed it to her. “Show me with this one.”

She nodded, understanding. “Ah.” I felt that she was appraising me.

I stayed with Nikita and her grandfather although she made it clear that I must sleep outside on the deck. “I have my reputation to think of,” she said. “I am sorry… but… you will stay?”

Quite frankly, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. I had my own sleeping bag and Nikita found a pillow. I slept reasonably well on the floor with the coconuts.

Sometimes, Nikita’s grandfather looked at me and nodded, as if he was talking to someone about me and they had agreed on something. I found it a bit daunting but Nikita told me not to worry. “He is getting old and sometimes he does odd things.” She giggled. She was highly desirable and I needed to keep myself in check. I wasn’t sure how things worked out here but I suspected that women were expected to be chaste before they married. I also noticed, a tad smugly, that Nikita showed no interest in the local talent. Maybe she’d turned them all down.

It was three weeks since I had missed my flight. No-one had come looking for me. No authorities had materialised to throw me out of the country. Maybe, hopefully, I was of little or no interest to them. My own family wouldn’t be concerned. My brother worked in nightclubs all over the world, our parents had divorced and remarried; my father was in Australia and my mother in Spain.

Nikita was well educated and informative. One day, while we strolled around Kumarakom, she told me that the region was highly regarded for its literary works and standard of education. She clasped my hand and my stomach somersaulted; I was finding it hard to be attentive as she chattered about the museums and the bird sanctuary. “Owen, we have so much to do and see!”

Neither of us broached the subject of how long I was going to stay.

Nikita was linked to the Internet, which when it felt like working, afforded me time to shoot off a few emails to clients and my family to tell them that I was in India – and I didn’t know when I was coming back.

The back of the houseboat was full of books precariously stacked on top of one another. I selected ones at will, only to discover that they were all about setting up and running a business – there were a lot about coconuts.

Nikita’s grandfather watched me, nodding pleasantly.

“How old is he, exactly?” I asked her one morning.

“Eighty-nine,” she replied.

“Really?” I thought back to the accident and how quickly he had recovered. “Crikey, what’s his secret?”

She shrugged. She was taking the dried part of the coconut called copra and preparing to strain it for oil.

“Coconuts, of course.”

I laughed and she pouted, pretending to be offended, flirting.

I pecked her cheek. “I believe you. That’s why you look like you do, Nikita.”

“Then you must read my books. I cannot tell you all the things in them, there are too many.”

“Okay.”

So I began to read her books on this strange-looking fruit, or drupe, and its benefits: a cure for disease, an aid to digestion and nutrition, its use in cosmetics and culinary recipes… its versatility was never-ending.

I drank the juice and the milk, ate the tender white meat and used the oil as a mouthwash – sometimes.

Nikita was preoccupied with developing cosmetics using raw organic coconut oil: soaps, shampoos and skincare products. “I will make a shampoo for blonde hair,” she told me.

I was amused. “I don’t think it will sell, Nikita. There aren’t many blondes in India.”

“No, Owen, just for you.”

Not wanting to feel like a spare part, I began to experiment with salad dressings, mixing coconut oil with different flavoured vinegars and spices.

I also fashioned the husks and inner shells to make artefacts, and worked on the outer shells to create faces. I created a likeness of Nikita, which I secretly thought was rather good. Fortunately, so did she. “You are an artist too!” Tears sprang to her eyes, “No-one has ever made anything for me before.”

I swallowed hard and asked her to marry me.

“But, of course,” she said.

It was just a few days later that I awoke to find Nikita sitting at the table crying. Alarmed, I leapt up and went to her. “What is it?”

“My grandfather…”

All things considered, I had arrived in Nikita’s life at just the right time. I didn’t know why, but the image of an old brown coconut misted before me.

Nikita was surprised to find that her grandfather had left her a reasonable sum of money. “We can get married,” she said, her eyes shining.

I shrugged my shoulders to tease her. “I suppose…” and found myself dodging coconut shells.

I emptied my UK bank account and transferred the money to my new account at the South Indian Bank.

I was very aware that the region was welcoming increasing numbers of tourists each year. Just like me, visitors were entranced with Kerala and all its attractions. Our hard work wasn’t going unnoticed either and the locals felt obliged to drop by and offer advice, in varying degrees of plausibility, on how we should run our business.

The time had come to take the gamble, but first I needed to persuade Nikita to sell the houseboat and buy somewhere bigger. I knew that this would be hard for her, leaving behind memories of the past few years with her grandfather. I let her mull it over for a few days until one evening, she coyly said, “Owen, I have found somewhere for us.”

Her local knowledge was, of course, superlative to mine. I took her hand as she pulled me alongside the canal and eventually pointed to a houseboat constructed from bamboo and, naturally, coconut fibre.

“It has two bedrooms,” she said.

“Oh?”

She smiled knowingly and offered no further explanation. The houseboat also had a large deck where we could experiment on and make our products. I was proud of her.

However, shortly after we had moved and were sitting outside one beautiful moonlit evening, we mulled over our business plan again.

Nikita sighed. “Even with our bigger deck, there is still not enough space to store all the coconuts and do our work too. What can we do?”

Not to be defeated, we checked our budget down to the last rupee, and on a wing and a prayer, we bought a small shed. Lalit, a local carpenter, crafted a large wooden table on which we could display and sell our products, while I came up with the idea of adding a few bar stools so that people could sit in comfort while taking time to peruse our goods. Nikita arranged small dishes around the table containing samples for people to test.

We subscribed to a faster Internet service and I sourced a simple accounting package. Using my IT skills, I also developed systems for stock control, customer and client details.

The bar stools had given me another idea on how to increase our income: coconut-based cocktails. I had secretly been working on one, trying its various development stages out on willing locals. I applied for and was granted an alcohol licence. Nikita was initially dubious; however, when she saw how successful my Coconut Crème De La Crème had become, she was inspired to make a face cream of the same name. The cream sold quickly – usually after the cocktails – and I didn’t let on that I had glimpsed her tasting my latest concoction, the name of which had come to me in the middle of the night: Coconut Spirit.

Contracts were drawn up for companies to sell our products on their houseboat cruises, in cafés and wildlife parks. We had meetings with people from all over Kerala, and beyond, who mostly came to us to observe our work in progress.

One day, when I walked onto the houseboat to pick up some bits and pieces, I saw Nikita watching our daughter as she dipped her fingers into a jar of coconut oil and attempted to massage it into her face. I slipped my arm around my wife’s waist as we quietly chuckled at the blobs stuck in her hair.

Instinctively, we looked up at a shelf and the glass case wherein sat a very special withered, dented, old brown coconut.