Chapter 12 – The Cloth That Changed the Bazaar
Date: Early April 1873
Location: Doddapete Bazaar, Mysore
It was an unusually restless morning in Mysore's Doddapete Bazaar. The usual sounds—bullock carts creaking, women bargaining over spices, hawkers shouting about ripe bananas and sugarcane—were suddenly interrupted by something new.
From the eastward lane, the sound of drums rolled low like distant thunder. Heads turned.
> "Drummers? On a cloth delivery?" muttered one shopkeeper.
The narrow lanes began to buzz as ten bullock carts slowly entered the marketplace in a neat procession. Atop each cart lay rolls upon rolls of white and dyed cotton cloth—tied with red ropes, stamped with the symbol of the Singham Company.
A young man from the crowd pointed.
> "Look there! That's the textile from the new mill in Kolar! I heard rumours… but I never believed it would arrive so soon!"
A cloth trader named Gopala, grey-bearded and sharp-eyed, walked out from his small verandah shop. He had sold Manchester cotton for years. His sons, sitting behind him, folded cloth while he inspected every passing cart with suspicion.
One of them nudged him.
> "Appa, is it true this is Indian cloth? From machines?"
Gopala didn't answer immediately. He stepped into the street and stopped one of the workers distributing samples.
> "Boy, what is this? From Madras? Bombay?"
The worker smiled, offering him a folded piece.
> "No sir. This is from Kolar. Our own mill. Woven with steam-powered looms. Singham Company."
Another man standing nearby gasped.
> "Steam looms? Here in Mysore?! I thought those were only in England!"
Gopala rubbed the cloth between his fingers. It was soft, yet firm. The weave was tight—better than half of what he'd received from British traders. His brow furrowed.
> "Two annas per yard?" he asked quietly.
> "Yes, sir," the worker said. "And soon we will have colour prints, silks, and embroidery too."
Another shopkeeper named Mahadevan scoffed.
> "I used to sell only British cotton. I didn't think local machines would ever work. I heard talk last year… but thought it was just village boasting."
The first merchant laughed.
> "Now even British merchants are whispering. Look at their faces!"
Across the road, three English traders—Mr. Percival, Mr. Talbot, and a younger assistant—stood beside their wagon stacked with unsold Manchester fabric. Their expressions were a mix of confusion and poorly hidden worry.
> "This is unacceptable," Talbot hissed under his breath. "We were assured the local industries were in ruin. Where did this mill come from?"
> "The Kolar line, sir," said the assistant. "They've got backing. Steam power. Blacksmith-built looms. And now this 'Fab Textile'... It's spreading."
Mr. Percival's lips thinned.
> "We must inform Madras. If they undercut us at this rate, our cotton contracts in Mysore, Hyderabad, even Travancore, will collapse."
Back near the carts, a crowd had gathered. One of the Singham agents—Raghu—stood atop a wooden crate and announced:
> "Brothers and sisters! This is the cloth of Bharat, made by the hands and machines of Bharat! No foreign master, no imported thread! Just your cotton, your skill, and your land's labour!"
A cheer went up from the crowd.
> "Jai Bharat Mata!"
And as the cloth was passed to shopkeepers, temples, and tailors, an invisible thread began to weave through the streets—a thread stronger than yarn.
It was called hope.
And it smelled of fresh cloth, local cotton, and freedom from foreign chains.
...
Date: Mid-April 1873
Location: Mysore, Travancore, Kochi, Madras, Hyderabad
By the second week of April, word had spread like wildfire across the southern princely states. What began as whispers in Mysore's bazaars now echoed across market streets and village lanes:
> "Have you seen it? The new cloth from the Singham mill?"
"Cheaper than the English ones. And better too."
People gathered not just in curiosity—but with purpose. The common weaver, the palace servant, the schoolteacher, even the royal court clerks—all were talking about the new cloth.
🏬 Singham & Sons Shops
In a bold and visionary move, Shyam, chief steward of the Singham family, had quietly opened dedicated shops under the brand "Singham & Sons – Vastra Mandir" (Temple of Cloth) in every major city across the south.
From the bustling lanes of Madras to the canals of Kochi, from the hill markets of Hyderabad to the flower-fringed roads of Travancore, new shops appeared—modest but well-organized, with hand-painted wooden signs and rolls of fabric displayed on long, polished counters.
In Mysore, outside the silver-fronted shop beside the old temple ghat, a long line of people snaked down the street. Mothers carrying infants, farmers with cloth-wrapped coins, even noblewomen in veils—all waited to buy cloth that now felt like their own.
One middle-aged tailor named Govindan clutched a sample and spoke aloud as the crowd listened:
> "I've stitched with British cloth for twenty years. Their thread breaks when pressed. This—" he lifted the cotton to the light—"this does not tear. It breathes. It stretches. It is ours."
The people clapped.
A woman from the back of the line called out:
> "Do you have red-dyed cotton? My daughter's marriage is next month!"
The shop assistant, beaming, unrolled a fresh bolt.
> "Yes, Amma. From the Travancore dye house. Fresh from the looms two days ago."
In Hyderabad, at the Charminar Bazaar, another Singham shop overflowed with buyers. Young merchants, school students, and even court scribes had gathered to look at the "cloth from Bharat's own hands."
A young poet stood by the shop and said quietly to his friend:
> "Do you see this? First the mills, then the books, now the cloth. If this continues... perhaps we will wear freedom before we win it."
💬 British Merchants' Frustration
In Madras, British merchants at George Town were no longer quiet.
One furrowed-browed man slammed his fist on a ledger in a smoky tea room.
> "They've sold nearly double our quantity in just one month!"
> "And who's this Shyam fellow?" another asked bitterly. "Setting up stores faster than we can close them."
Back in Kochi, a British agent muttered after seeing the empty stalls at his own cloth booth:
> "What sorcery is this? Who would have thought… India would buy from India again?"
🧵 A People's Choice
But it wasn't sorcery. It was strategy, sweat, and sincerity.
People were choosing not just cloth, but dignity.
And every time a Singham & Sons bill was signed, a British monopoly weakened.
In the streets, the new phrase began to spread:
> "अब हम विदेशी नहीं, देशी पहनेंगे!"
"No more foreign cloth—we wear our own!"
And as bolts of cotton left shop counters, as tailors stitched fresh kurtas and sarees, as wedding trousseaus filled with local cloth—a quiet revolution was wrapping itself around the people of Bharat.
Not with flags yet.
But with fabric.
...
Date: April 1873
Location: Courts of Mysore, Travancore, Hyderabad, Madras, Kochi
The winds of change had reached the durbars and palaces. In each of the princely states—Mysore, Travancore, Hyderabad, Madras, and Kochi—word had spread of the Singham & Sons textile mills producing fine, durable cloth using the newly constructed machine-powered looms.
In Mysore, a court official entered the hall with a scroll and bowed deeply to the Maharaja.
> "Maharaj, reports from our local traders confirm it—Singham & Sons has established five functioning textile factories. One in Kolar, and others in Travancore, Kochi, Hyderabad, and Madras. Their cloth is already flooding the city bazaars."
The king, an aged but sharp-eyed man dressed in fine silk robes, stroked his beard thoughtfully. "And how is the response of the people?"
> "They are calling it 'kapda janta ka' — cloth of the people," the minister replied. "It is both cheaper and stronger than the British imports."
The Maharaja leaned forward, his voice low and decisive.
> "This proves what we have long suspected. We need not depend on the British for everything. We must awaken our industries again."
In Travancore, the ruler sat with his councilmen in a stone-pillared durbar surrounded by carved murals of past victories. The finance minister read aloud:
> "Your Majesty, revenues from imported British textiles have fallen. People now flock to Singham's shop in the city square. Merchants say the cloth comes from their factory nearby—and the commoners find it better in quality and price."
The king's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps it is time to re-evaluate our dependencies. We have forest, water, and people. Why should we continue sending raw cotton only to buy back expensive shirts?"
> "Indeed, Your Highness," said one of the younger advisors. "We can modernize—not through the British—but by seeking knowledge from others too. Germany, for instance, is making rapid strides in industrial tools."
> "Yes," the king said. "We do not need to be loyal beggars to London when we can be trading partners with other nations. Let this textile movement inspire our other crafts too."
---
Meanwhile, in Madras, the political atmosphere was more complex. As one of the key British presidencies, the elites were deeply entrenched. But even here, change was brewing.
A prominent local noble, Sir Muthuswami Iyer, voiced his opinion during a merchants' gathering:
> "Gentlemen, I hear rumors daily. People speak of Singham cloth. At first, I laughed it off, but now my own household staff refuse to buy anything but their brand."
Another merchant nodded. "I was at their store on Mount Road. It was packed. Not just the poor—middle-class families, even elite households. Everyone wants their fabric."
> "This isn't just business," said Sir Muthuswami. "This is a shift in power. If we support this, perhaps more industries can rise. Perhaps our youth won't need to go to Britain to learn engineering—they can build here."
---
Back in the private study of the King of Hyderabad, he spoke with his trusted military advisor and textile guild leader.
> "Ten years ago, we could not have imagined such industrial initiative from within our own soil," the king said, tapping his fingers on a silk-covered table. "But the Singham family has changed the game."
> "And not just Kolar, my lord," said the guild leader. "Each of their factories is functional, and each is supplying cloth directly to its city and nearby towns. No long routes. No British control. And they use local cotton."
The king gave a satisfied nod. "Finally… a system that cleans the cycle of productivity and technology, keeping it native to Bharat. We export too much raw cotton and import too much debt. It is time we produce final goods ourselves."
> "Shall we invite the Singham family to court?" the military advisor asked.
> "Yes," said the Nizam. "Let us honor them. But more importantly—let us learn from them."
---
Across these five princely courts, one thought echoed louder than before:
> "We must increase our own local industries. This is how we rise again—not by fighting the British with arms alone, but with looms, presses, and schools."
And though none of these kingdoms were politically united, a thread had begun to bind them: the idea that India could produce, not just provide.
That Bharat could lead, not just serve.
And at the heart of this silent industrial revolution was the name now whispered with both respect and curiosity—
> Singham & Sons.
...
Date: Late April 1873
Location: Madras Office, Singham & Sons Textile Company
Shyam sat at his wide rosewood desk, surrounded by ledgers, cotton samples, dyeing records, and stacks of cloth swatches pinned with handwritten price slips. The whirring of clerks copying invoices filled the air as a gentle breeze stirred the monsoon-scented curtains.
A tall young assistant entered the room with a thick folder.
> "Sir, this week's full report—sales, pricing, and comparative data," he said.
Shyam nodded and took the folder.
His eyes scanned the crisp parchment of the week's internal sales report, freshly written by his assistants with neat, careful strokes. He had waited for this—the first month of open sales after years of planning and months of quiet storage.
He muttered to himself as he read, the words slow and deliberate.
> "British cloth… losing ground."
---
He turned the page and paused. This was the comparison chart—the one he had personally ordered prepared:
---
April Report: Singham & Sons vs. British Textile Goods
Basic Cotton Dhoti
• British Price: ₹1.20
• Singham Price: ₹0.80
• Remark: Softer weave. Woven in Mysore. Preferred in rural and temple orders.
Kurta-Pajama Set
• British Price: ₹2.5 – ₹3
• Singham Price: ₹1.75 – ₹2.25
• Remark: Tailored locally, better drape. Popular among schoolteachers and merchants.
Fine Muslin Sari
• British Price: ₹7 – ₹10
• Singham Price: ₹5 – ₹6
• Remark: Lighter, smoother. Selling well among middle-class women in Madras and Travancore.
Silk Sari (Festival Wear)
• British Price: ₹18 – ₹35
• Singham Price: ₹12 – ₹18
• Remark: Richer color from vegetable dyes, softer texture. Preferred by zamindars for family weddings.
Turban Cloth (Safa)
• British Price: ₹2.50
• Singham Price: ₹1.25 – ₹1.75
• Remark: Stronger weave. Local designs. Respected by elders and court officials alike.
Embroidered Waistcoat
• British Price: ₹12 – ₹18
• Singham Price: ₹9 – ₹11
• Remark: Deccan embroidery, locally inspired. Especially loved in Hyderabad and Kochi courts.
---
Shyam leaned back in his chair, letting the figures settle into his thoughts.
> "They said we couldn't match British factories," he whispered. "But our cloth is not just cheaper. It's better."
He picked up a length of cream-colored cotton dhoti from the table, rubbing it gently between his fingers.
> "Soft. Breathable. Local hands made this."
Then he examined a sample from Manchester. It was stiff, coarse, uniform.
> "Mass-produced for profits. Not for pride."
A clerk approached him.
> "Sir, demand has increased again. Orders have doubled in Kanchipuram and Nagapattinam."
Shyam nodded slowly. His thoughts returned to the farmers, the tailors, the weavers—the very soul of Bharat.
He glanced again at the figures. These weren't just numbers. They were voices. Votes. A silent revolution in every purchase.
> "Let the British call it a rumor," he smiled. "We will let the people prove the truth."
> "We are winning. And not just in cost—in dignity."
He called over his assistant.
> "Touch this."
The boy obeyed, comparing both textures.
> "Singham cloth is softer, sir. Feels cooler too."
Shyam nodded. "That's the difference our people notice. It's not just price. It's pride."
He read aloud another excerpt from the report:
---
> "Elite Class Reaction – Madras & Travancore
Many zamindars now prefer Singham silks for family occasions. Fabrics are brighter, smoother, and made to order. Tailoring requests have doubled."
> Middle-Class Traders – Hyderabad & Kochi
"Price-conscious, but quality-aware. They say: 'Why pay ₹3 for British shirt when ₹1.5 gives better comfort?'"
> Laborer Class – Mysore & Surrounding Villages
"Simple dhoti for ₹0.80 now sells faster than any item. Demand outstrips supply. Entire villages now wear our cotton."
---
Shyam walked to a wall map with pins across Mysore, Travancore, Kochi, Madras, and Hyderabad. Under each city were three categories:
Elite – Traders – Farmers.
Under each: ✅ marks, red flags, and growing numbers.
> "We made one promise," he whispered. "Better quality at lower price. For every home. For every caste. For every shoulder."
He jotted a note in the ledger:
> "Next phase – expand tailored wear in urban centers. Maintain price stability. Focus on silk sales during marriage season."
---
Suddenly, his deputy entered with news.
> "Sir! New customers in Madurai and Nellore! They say Singham's cloth is now worn in court functions."
Shyam smiled but remained calm.
> "This is just the beginning. We are not just selling cloth—we are stitching Bharat back together."
He placed the report into a polished wooden chest labeled:
> "Bharat Swabhimaan – Industrial Record, Year 1"
Then turned to his team.
> "Prepare a new shipment. Send soft cottons for summer. And tell the tailors: No compromise in finish—even for ₹0.80 dhotis."