Chapter 14– Shadows before the storm
Date: 21 May 1873
Location: Kolar – Courtyard near the well
The noon sun blazed overhead, but under the sprawling shade of the old neem tree in the courtyard, it was cooler—almost still. The dry wind rattled the leaves like whispers of the past.
Surya sat cross-legged on the earth, back resting against the gnarled bark, a thin cotton cloth laid beneath him. His ink-stained hands rested quietly on his knees. He wasn't reading, nor writing. He was thinking.
Deeply.
His gaze wandered to the sky, then to the distant hills, and finally back to the dust between his fingers.
> "Eighteen seventy-three..." he murmured.
"How could I forget what's coming next?"
A chill ran down his spine, despite the heat. The Bengal famine. The word itself sat like ash in his mouth.
> "So many will die. So many already have. The fields are failing. Rice prices are rising. And the British…"
"The British will not understand the storm before it swallows us."
He remembered. Not from books. Not from rumors.
But from something deeper.
From a memory that did not belong to this three-year-old body.
---
Surya closed his eyes. The world around him faded. What remained was a vision of cracked earth and swollen stomachs, mothers crying by dry canals, children dying in silence.
> "It won't be declared a famine officially until it's too late," he whispered bitterly.
"They'll say relief comes in 1874. But relief too late is not relief. It is insult."
His fists clenched. Neem leaves fell beside him like paper prayers.
---
He thought of the false grain exports. Of rice being sent away from Bengal while its people starved. Of railway lines that moved profit, not compassion. Of British officers who wrote glowing reports while entire villages faded from maps.
> "They will blame drought. But the drought is not rain—it is the drought of humanity."
His voice trembled, barely audible.
> "I cannot stop a famine," he admitted to himself.
"But maybe—maybe—I can prepare. I can build systems. I can speak to Pitaji. I can ask for food stores, for warnings, for schools that also teach resilience—not just reading."
He picked up a fallen twig and drew a rough map in the dust. A line from Bengal to Kolar. A circle at every major junction.
> "We must link grain networks. We must store food before it fails."
Surya breathed in deeply, the neem's bitter scent grounding him.
The world still thought of him as a precocious child. A boy with sharp questions and quiet eyes.
But inside him burned the grief of a thousand forgotten lives.
And a fierce determination to not let history repeat without resistance.
> "I remember, Bengal," he whispered.
"This time, I will not forget you."
Late Afternoon
The brass wind chimes above the veranda doorway stirred gently in the breeze as the scent of cardamom tea drifted from the kitchen. Ramrajan was seated on a low wooden bench, a thick ledger open on his lap, his brow furrowed in concentration. His pen moved slowly, recording factory accounts in his careful, practiced hand.
Suddenly, soft footsteps approached.
Surya, bare feet dusted with courtyard soil, came and stood beside him. He didn't speak immediately. His eyes, wide and clouded with concern, stared beyond the balcony, as if seeing something no one else could.
Ramrajan looked up. "What is it, kanna?" he asked gently, sensing something in his son's silence.
Surya slowly sat down beside him.
> "Pitaji… I saw a dream last night."
Ramrajan closed the ledger. "A dream?"
> "Yes," Surya said, his voice soft, but trembling. "In the dream… I saw people. Poor people. Lying beside dry rivers. Their mouths open, but no words came. Only silence. Their stomachs… swollen. Their children were weeping, but there was no food. No grain. Nothing."
Ramrajan's face darkened. He placed a steadying hand on Surya's shoulder.
> "Where was this, beta?"
Surya paused, searching for the words.
> "It wasn't here. It was… in the north. Bihar. I saw a village near the Ganga. The earth was cracked. There was no harvest. People were eating leaves and mud just to fill their bellies. And then… they died."
The words hung in the air like the last breath of a dying wind.
> "At first I thought it was only a bad dream," Surya whispered. "But… I can't shake it. Something about it felt real, like it had happened—or will happen soon."
Ramrajan leaned back. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then quietly, he asked, "Why do you think such a vision came to you?"
Surya shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe it's only my imagination. Or maybe… maybe it's a warning."
He looked up into his father's eyes, his own eyes glistening.
> "What will happen if there's famine in Bihar, Pitaji? Will people really die like that?"
Ramrajan sighed deeply. "Famine is not new, Surya. It is the demon that walks behind poor rainfall, poor policy, and poor planning. It visits silently, but strikes like fire."
He stood up slowly, looking toward the horizon.
> "In the past, we relied on kings to open granaries. Now we must rely on ourselves."
He turned to his son.
> "If this dream is a warning, we must listen—not with fear, but with foresight."
Surya nodded. "Then let us do something. Let us store grain. Let us speak to the merchants and farmers. Let's prepare—not just for Mysore, but for Bengal, for Bihar, for everywhere."
Ramrajan placed his hand over Surya's heart.
> "You carry the burden of many. You are still a child, but your soul sees more than most men ever will. I will act on your words."
And so, from the quiet of one dream, a new idea was born—not just to weave cloth, but to prepare grain, to watch the skies, and to listen when the wind speaks warnings that others cannot hear.
At Evening
The sky outside had begun to cloud. A slow wind rustled the neem branches as lamps flickered in the wooden corridors of the haveli. Inside the study, a faint scent of burning camphor lingered from the evening prayer.
Ramrajan stood by the long teak table, hands folded behind his back. Surya sat on a floor cushion, still quiet from their earlier conversation.
"I believe you, Surya," Ramrajan said, turning slowly to face him. "But the world does not run on belief alone."
Surya looked up, brows drawn. "You mean others won't listen?"
Ramrajan nodded, his voice calm but sharp.
> "Merchants listen to silver, not shadows. Landlords care more for coin than for clouds. If we are to act on this warning… we will need proof."
He walked to a map on the wall and pointed toward the north.
> "Bihar is far. The rains come there differently than here in Mysore. Their soil, their politics, their harvest cycles—all are different."
He turned to the doorway. "Shyam!"
Moments later, Shyam stepped in, wiping ink from his hands.
> "Yes, Ayya?" he said respectfully, standing at attention.
Ramrajan's tone grew purposeful.
> "I need you to begin gathering information—immediately. Everything you can about the weather patterns in Bihar. Monsoon behavior. River water levels. Grain output of the last two years. And their political policies—especially who manages their food stores."
Shyam blinked, then nodded slowly. "Yes, I can contact the grain traders in Patna. I know one or two from the textile route."
> "Good. But don't just speak with traders," Ramrajan added. "Find astrologers, weather-readers, farmers—anyone who can understand the sky better than we do. And send word to the old Purohits who still track lunar cycles."
Shyam scribbled notes furiously in a small palm-leaf notebook.
Ramrajan looked at Surya once again.
> "This time, Surya, we must act wisely. Not just with heart, but with head. We will not sound alarm—yet. But we will prepare, silently."
Surya nodded. "The famine may not have arrived… but its shadow already has."
As the sky deepened to a smoky gray, a sense of urgency settled into the room—not of fear, but of action. In that hour, beneath the steady oil lamps of Kolar Haveli, a father, a son, and a trusted aide began the quiet work of foresight—hoping to outrun the hunger that history had failed to stop before.
...
The morning sun filtered through the east-facing jharokha of the haveli as Shyam stood in the courtyard, sharp-eyed and deliberate. Four trusted messengers stood before him—each seasoned in travel and silence.
Shyam unrolled a map and jabbed his finger toward the north.
> "You'll split. Gaya, Patna, Purnia, and Muzaffarpur," he said. "Ask no loud questions. Speak to farmers. Grain merchants. Even the priests who track stars. I want to know about the rain—whether it came or didn't. I want to know what the granaries hold. And whether the government writes lies or truths."
One of the men, lean and dark-skinned with deep-set eyes, nodded. "What of the British officers?"
Shyam's voice lowered. "Avoid them. But listen to their clerks. Sometimes servants know more than the sahibs."
He handed them sealed palm-leaf notes with encoded symbols and funding. "Ride light. Report only to me."
Within hours, the men rode out on horseback and bullock carts—quietly cutting through the dust and mango groves, moving through riverside temples and city grain bazaars of northern Bharat. As May heat pressed down, so did the smell of dried earth and wilting leaves.
---
30 May 1873 – Evening
Kolar Haveli, Inner Study Hall
The door creaked open. Shyam entered, his face tired but resolute. In his hand was a folded cloth packet—dusty and sealed with wax.
Ramrajan looked up from his desk. Surya was nearby, arranging copies of revenue reports.
Shyam bowed slightly.
> "Ayya… the news is worse than we feared."
He laid out the collected reports—smudged ink notes, torn fragments from letters, even grain price lists written on temple donation scrolls.
> "Rain hasn't touched large parts of Bihar. Gaya and Purnia had no proper showers since February. The rivers are thin. Village tanks are bone-dry."
He pointed to one paper.
> "This is from a farmer near Arrah. His family sowed lentils, but nothing grew. His granary is already half-sold—to pay taxes."
Surya leaned forward. "What about food storage?"
Shyam's expression tightened.
> "The British officers in Patna claim grain reserves are 'sufficient,' but I spoke to a trader who delivers to the cantonment. He says the stock is being sold to export merchants. Not stored. Not for locals."
Ramrajan clenched his jaw. "So even now… they sell what little is left."
Shyam added in a hushed voice, "Two of our men overheard whispers—some British officers have begun privately ordering long-stay shipments of preserved rations from Calcutta. Quietly. They're preparing. The people are not."
Silence hung in the air.
Then Ramrajan rose slowly from his seat.
> "We cannot stop the drought. But we may stop the starvation."
He looked at Surya, then back to Shyam.
> "Double our orders of rice and millet from Mysore and Kerala. Stock it quietly in our temple warehouses. Prepare food carts. Build one extra godown."
He paused, then said with steel in his tone:
> "And send a message—quiet and trusted—to Bihar. If the rains fail, our grain will not."