Chapter 8 – Ripples Across the South
Late 1871 – Kolar, Princely State of Mysore
The morning breeze carried with it the familiar scent of pulp—moist, earthy, and now unmistakably tied to progress. Around the courtyard of the Kolar haveli, workers passed silently with ledgers and baskets of bark. A murmur of prosperity rustled like the wind through neem leaves.
Beneath the shade of the carved wooden awning, Ramarajan sat with a calm stillness. A long cotton shawl draped over one shoulder. His calloused fingers rested on an opened ledger.
Before him stood Shyam, steward of the household and quiet architect of its growing trade. His white dhoti bore travel stains, and his hands held the bound report—stitched not in silk, but in confidence.
Surya sat beside his father on a straw mat, legs folded, chewing a stalk of sugarcane and watching with attentive eyes.
Shyam bowed slightly and opened the book. "Swami… I bring the third-month summary of our Kolar paper mill."
Ramarajan gave a single nod. Shyam continued, turning the pages slowly.
"We began with ₹4,500 cost for the building," he said, tapping a neat column of figures. "Machines, vats, rollers, roofing, bamboo scaffolding, and labor wages. Add ₹1,000 for the road and transport carts, ₹500 for tools and pulping tanks."
Ramarajan glanced sideways. "₹6,000 for a single mill," he murmured.
"But," Shyam added, "the production now stands at 800 to 1,000 reams per month, depending on weather. Quality stable, output steady."
"And the market?" Ramarajan asked.
Shyam smiled. "Sold 2,500 reams in three months. Rate of ₹1.50 for normal writing paper, ₹2 for fine. That totals over ₹4,000 collected already—after expenses."
Surya leaned forward. "So we've earned nearly what we spent?"
"More," Shyam replied. "By next month, profit will cross ₹1,200. The name Kolar Kāgaz is spoken now from Mysore to Srirangapatna."
Ramarajan closed the ledger. "Then it is time."
"Time, swami?" Shyam asked.
Ramarajan stood and walked to the large floor map of South India carved on teak. His fingers brushed over small red dots—Kolar, Chikballapur, Mysore city.
"One mill cannot feed the fire that has been lit," he said. "We build more—three more. In Travancore, Hyderabad, and perhaps Cochin. Not in British lands. Let us not kneel for license."
Shyam hesitated. "It will cost, sir. Another ₹6,000 each, perhaps more if river access or land clearing is hard."
"We will spend what must be spent," Ramarajan replied firmly. "But we'll spend among friends—among kings who still wear their own crown."
He turned to Surya and asked softly, "Shall we write our next chapter on Travancore paper?"
Surya smiled. "Only if we can teach children there to write on it first."
Shyam bowed once more. "I shall ride south, Swami. There are forests, water, and friendly court in Travancore. The Maharaja supports printers and temples alike."
"And you will not go alone," Ramarajan said. "Take masons, engineers, loyal scribes. Let them speak not only of money—but of respect, of trust, and of building together."
Outside the haveli walls, the sound of hammering came from the paper drying house. The press creaked gently under pressure, the scent of mulberry bark thick in the air.
One mill had awakened a town. Now three more would stir a nation.
And in the hands of common people—writing their own stories on pages not made in Britain, but born in the South—the real work had only just begun.
...
The morning mist hung low over the red soil of southern India as the wheels of the Singham family cart turned softly on the damp path. Shyam, steward and chief administrator of the House of Singham, sat at the front, his eyes calm, but mind sharp as a blade just off the whetstone.
The air was fragrant with wet earth, champa blossoms, and the distant smoke of temple lamps. His companions, two clerks and a guard, remained quiet. Each bump in the road seemed to carry them further into a different world—lush forests, jackfruit groves, and rivers that sang ancient songs through the land.
They were entering Travancore, not as merchants or pilgrims, but as envoys of vision. In the trunks they carried were sealed letters from Ramarajan Singham, scrolls of industrial sketches, folded trade reports, and, most precious of all—reams of fine Kolar paper, crisp, ivory, and shimmering faintly with the scent of fresh pulp.
---
The Legacy of the Singham House
The Singham family of Kolar was not new to wealth—but their wealth had always spoken in hushed tones, like fine silk brushing marble. For three generations, they had commanded respect as landowners, patrons of temples, and war-era financiers. Their textile business, rooted in the famed weaves of North Karnataka, supplied courts from Mysore to Hyderabad. Their holdings included spice estates, iron smelting units, and part-interest in sandalwood reserves under princely license.
Now, under Ramarajan's leadership—and nudged by his prodigious young son, Surya—the family had stepped into something unprecedented: manufacturing. And with it, a new hunger had stirred. Not for power alone, but for self-reliance.
The Kolar Kāgaz Mill, barely a year old, had already gained attention among noble houses. The quality of its paper rivaled imports from Britain, while its cost undercut them by nearly half. More importantly, it carried no foreign seal.
---
Arrival at the Travancore Palace
As their cart creaked to a halt beneath the shadow of Padmanabhapuram Palace, the aroma of sandal and coconut oil drifted in the breeze. The white stone façade gleamed under the late afternoon sun, latticed windows casting delicate shadows upon the crimson-tiled floor.
Inside, in the quiet grandeur of the durbar hall, Shyam stepped forward. His cotton turban was perfectly folded; his angavastram gleamed with a subtle golden border. He bowed deeply before His Highness the Maharaja of Travancore, who sat with serene composure, a pearl necklace resting lightly on his chest.
The king's ministers looked on with interest, their eyes flickering to the scrolls and samples Shyam carried.
---
The Presentation
With graceful confidence, Shyam began to speak.
"Your Majesty," he said in refined Tamil-Kannada, "the House of Singham sends warm greetings and respect. We bring with us the fruit of an idea—a mill that makes not grain, but the very pages on which the wisdom of this land may be written."
He unrolled a sample sheet of Kolar paper, crisp and white, placing it before the Maharaja. The king touched it gently. It felt smooth, light, yet strong—a paper fit for scripture, for accounts, for the art of kingship.
Shyam continued, "This paper is born of our own soil—mulberry bark, bamboo fiber, spring water—crafted by Indian hands, guided by Indian minds. We now seek to build a second mill, here in Travancore, where water flows generously and forests offer quiet abundance."
The Maharaja raised an eyebrow. "And what brings your house to seek land so far from Kolar?"
Shyam smiled faintly. "The desire to spread not wealth, but independence."
---
The Broader Vision
With deliberate care, Shyam expanded the picture. "The Singham family has not only built a paper mill. Our roots lie deep—in textiles woven from Channapatna to Salem, in sandalwood that scents royal palaces, in coin lent to the treasury of Mysore during the famine years. But this"—he gestured to the paper—"this is the beginning of our next chapter."
He described the plan in detail: a large mill by the Periyar River, with twin pulp tanks, four drying cylinders, and employment for at least sixty men and women. The raw material—bamboo, straw, and cloth rags—would be purchased from local communities. Training would be provided, wages fair, and every sheet would bear the stamp: Kāgaz Mandir – Made in Travancore.
The Maharaja leaned back. "You speak like a minister," he said softly.
Shyam bowed. "I speak as a servant of those who dare to imagine."
---
Licensing and Agreement
Negotiations followed over the next two days.
Land: Five fertile acres on the southern bank of the river, adjacent to a bamboo-rich forest tract
Water Rights: Permitted with seasonal regulation
Forest Access: Controlled usage, under palace-appointed supervision
Taxation: 5% on annual revenue for the first five years, later to be revised
Education Clause: A portion of production must be reserved at discounted cost for Travancore's temple schools and legal institutions
On the evening of the third day, the Maharaja dipped a golden stylus in ink and signed the license decree. It was done. A new chapter in Indian industry had begun—not in Calcutta, not under Company seal—but in the heart of a princely state, with no Union Jack in sight.
---
The Temple of Thought
That night, as moonlight dappled the waters of the Periyar, Shyam stood quietly by the riverbank. The sound of crickets mixed with the gentle flow of water and the distant tolling of a temple bell. His thoughts were calm, but resolute.
"This will not be just another mill," he said to his assistant. "It must be larger, wiser—fitting of a land where the gods walk barefoot."
He turned, voice steadier now.
"Bring masons from Madurai. Engineers from Cochin. Begin building in the cool season. Name it not after our house, but after its spirit: Periyar Kāgaz Mandir."
The stars above bore witness. And below, in silence, the river continued to flow—its course now slightly changed by the hand of one visionary steward.
The early winter sun cast a soft gold across the tiled courtyard of the Singham haveli in Kolar. The air was gentle, dry and cool, carrying the scent of roasted rice flour and sandalwood from the temple a few lanes away. Inside the haveli, Surya sat cross-legged on a thick woolen rug. He wore a simple white cotton kurta, its hem fluttering slightly as he rocked back and forth, his wide black eyes fixed on the scribbles of charcoal in his little notebook.
He was just past two years old, yet his limbs were strong and filled with grace. His fingers moved with the surety of memory—memory not just of months, but of years that no one else remembered. To the world, he was a blessed child. To himself, he was a man reborn.
Beside him, his aunt Kamakshi leaned in, helping him trace Kannada letters. "ಅ… ಆ… ಇ…" she chanted rhythmically. Surya repeated them gently, but his mind wandered.
> "Writing by hand is good, but what if many need to read? What if ideas must travel faster than horse or man?"
His eyes turned toward the old shelf in the hall, where a few prized books were placed. Palm-leaf scriptures, handwritten legal notes, an English grammar book brought by a trader from Madras, and a bound volume of "Moral Instructions for Indian Youth"—clearly printed in Calcutta, marked Government Press 1869.
He rose slowly, his tiny feet padding across the stone floor. Picking up the grammar book with both hands, he brought it to his father, who was reading the day's account ledger.
"Appa," he said softly. "How is this book made?"
Ramrajan chuckled. "Ah, this? It is from the English printing press. Metal letters, ink, and machine—much faster than our scribes. One man with a press can do the work of a hundred."
Surya turned the pages reverently. They made a faint fluttering sound, crisp and delicate. The ink had no smudge. The letters—perfect, mechanical, soulless perhaps—but uniform, clear, and strong.
> "We have begun making paper," he thought, "but without printing, how will ideas spread? Will each village have to copy every scroll by hand again?"
He looked up at his father, eyes steady.
"Can we make such books? Not from London… from here. In Kannada. In Sanskrit. In Tamil. So people read. Learn. Think."
Ramrajan blinked. His son's words had the calm force of logic, not childish whim.
"You want to make books?" he said, with cautious amusement.
Surya nodded. "We made paper, Appa. Now, we can teach the paper to speak."
---
The Whisper of the Past
That night, as Surya lay on the verandah beside his mother, wrapped in a thin woolen shawl, he looked at the stars.
> "In my last life, books were everywhere. Science, literature, medicine, poetry. But most people had no books of their own. They were expensive. Controlled. Shaped by foreign hands. I read Newton in their tongue, not ours."
He thought of young minds—boys and girls in dusty towns, with questions in their hearts but no pages to find the answers.
> "If I live again, I will make books. Easy to find. Easy to read. In every language this land speaks."
---
The Spark Begins
The next morning, Surya stood quietly beside his grandfather, watching a letter being drafted by the accountant on fresh Kolar paper. The pen moved slowly, with dignity—but it took nearly an hour to complete three pages.
Surya sighed.
> "If we had a press… this could be done in minutes."
He looked toward his mother.
"Amma, can I ask something?"
She smiled, brushing his hair. "Of course."
"Can I learn how machines make letters? Like they make sugarcane juice… but with words."
She paused—then laughed softly.
"You really are a child of Surya Devta."
...
The sun had just begun to descend behind the distant hills of Kolar, casting a warm, golden hue over the tiled roofs of the sprawling Singham haveli. The marigold vines swayed softly in the evening breeze, and the faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—someone in the neighborhood had lit a lamp for dusk prayers.
Inside the haveli's inner courtyard, Ramrajan sat on the stone bench near the neem tree, dressed in a crisp dhoti and soft wool shawl. His thick mustache twitched slightly as he scanned a handwritten report, his eyes focused and steady.
From the main gate, the sound of horse hooves and chattering servants announced the return of Shyam.
The steward entered, dust on his shoulders, but pride in his step. Folding his palms respectfully, he approached.
"Raja saheb," he said, "I've returned with news from Travancore."
Ramrajan's eyes brightened. "Tell me, Shyam. Sit down, drink water. Then speak."
A brass tumbler was brought. Shyam drank in one long breath and began.
"In Travancore, our man Raghav is managing well. The palace allowed us land close to the river—plenty of clean water, forest access, and even nearby laborers who already work with coir and jute. They are eager to begin. Construction has started. Within two moons, the foundation of the mill will be ready."
Ramrajan nodded slowly, absorbing each word like precious stone.
"Kochi?" he asked.
"Yes. Shyamlal is handling it. The port access is perfect—raw material can come by boat, and finished paper can move inland. He's already spoken to the local Diwan. Licenses will arrive within the week."
"And Hyderabad?"
"Raghu is working with the textile merchants there. Many are interested in printed labels, ledger books, and account papers. A factory near their old trade route has been secured."
Ramrajan stood up, hands clasped behind his back. The lamps were being lit around the courtyard now, throwing soft shadows across the stone.
"Shyam," he said, his voice low but firm, "this is good work. Very good."
Shyam bowed. "Thank you, Raja saheb."
Ramrajan turned to look at the far end of the courtyard, where Surya was drawing something in the dust with a stick—lines, blocks, wheels. Some strange machine that lived only in his mind, yet made with such precision one might think he'd already seen it.
Ramrajan smiled faintly and continued, "But it is not enough."
Shyam looked up, curious.
"We make paper now. But who will write upon it? Who will spread knowledge?" Ramrajan's eyes narrowed slightly. "The British control the printing. Their presses flood the markets. Schools, gazettes, government records—all printed by them. In their language. In their way."
Shyam nodded. "It's true. Even the temple notices now come from Calcutta."
"I want presses, Shyam," Ramrajan said, voice deep with resolve. "Printing machines. Book factories. Find out everything—how books are made, how ink is poured, how paper moves through rollers to become wisdom."
Shyam was silent a moment, then spoke slowly.
"There are small newspapers even here in Mysore. Weekly ones, printed in Madras and Bangalore. We could start there—speak to them, learn what machines they use. Some came from Germany, others from France. We might… import parts or make them here, if our men can learn."
Ramrajan stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"I want printing presses near every paper mill. Travancore, Kochi, Hyderabad—even Kolar. Let each place not only make paper but give it voice."
He looked again at Surya, who now sat cross-legged, humming softly, oblivious yet somehow connected.
"The boy sees beyond us," Ramrajan said. "We must prepare the world for what he will one day teach."
.