📖 Chapter 17 – Surya's word
Date: 5 July 1873
Location: Kolar, Mysore (Singham Estate Meeting Hall)
The air in the grand wooden hall was heavy with tension. Lamps flickered, casting long shadows on the polished stone floor. Maps of the subcontinent lay pinned to the walls—drawn by hand, dotted with marks showing grain flows, princely borders, and rail routes.
At the center of the long table, a folded letter bore the red seal of Ram from Gaya. Next to it, a copy of Bihar Bandhu, headline scrawled in sharp Devanagari:
"Empire Feeds Itself—While Bharat Starves."
Ramrajan sat at the head of the table, face still. To his right stood Shyam, flipping through reports from Bihar, Bengal, and Bundelkhand. And next to him, Surya—his eyes bright, chest rising with conviction.
All around them sat thinkers, traders, soldiers, schoolteachers, reform-minded landlords—men and women from across Mysore, Madras, and Travancore. The room wasn't just full of people. It was full of purpose.
Surya rose.
> "The British call this a civilised rule," he said, voice calm but firm.
"But what kind of civilisation starves people while exporting grain to London?"
The hall went silent.
> "We now have evidence," Surya continued. "They knew a drought was coming. Still, they shipped the stored grain—grain meant for the mouths of Bihar's poor—to England. Why? Because they only care for one thing: profit."
> "They take our cotton, wear it. They take our spices, eat them. They take our salt, sell it back to us. And still—they do not give us dignity."
He paused, looking across the hall.
> "These are not our people. They are rulers, yes—but rulers who divide us. They whisper poison between Rajputs and Marathas, between Hindus and Muslims, between princely states and British provinces."
A schoolmaster from Madras nodded gravely.
> "It started a hundred years ago," Surya went on. "They came as traders… and they became rulers. They built forts behind their shops, and turned our armies against one another."
> "But let's ask this: Who fires their guns? Who raids our temples and fields under their orders? Not Englishmen—our own brothers, our own sons, in red coats, following commands from men who speak in another tongue."
The room stirred with murmurs.
Surya struck the table gently with his palm.
> "We are not different. We are one."
> "One land—Bharat. One people—Bhartiya. Whether you are from Mysore or Mewar, Bengal or Bundelkhand, princely or British state—you are born of this sacred land."
Shyam looked up, visibly moved. Even Ramrajan leaned back, arms crossed, thinking.
> "We must remind the people," Surya declared.
"Tell them we are all Bhartiya. Tell them to stop seeing themselves as divided by lines drawn by foreigners."
> "Every grain they steal, every drop of sweat they exploit—it happens because we let them divide us."
There was silence again.
Then Ramrajan spoke.
> "You speak like a son of the land," he said slowly, a rare smile forming. "I see now why the wind carried you here."
He turned to the others.
> "Let this meeting be the beginning. From now, we don't just sell cloth—we stitch together our people."
The air in the grand wooden hall was heavy with tension. Lamps flickered, casting long shadows on the polished stone floor. Maps of the subcontinent lay pinned to the walls—drawn by hand, dotted with marks showing grain flows, princely borders, and rail routes.
At the center of the long table, a folded letter bore the red seal of Ram from Gaya. Next to it, a copy of Bihar Bandhu, headline scrawled in sharp Devanagari:
"Empire Feeds Itself—While Bharat Starves."
Ramrajan sat at the head of the table, face still. To his right stood Shyam, flipping through reports from Bihar, Bengal, and Bundelkhand. And next to him, Surya—his eyes bright, chest rising with conviction.
All around them sat thinkers, traders, soldiers, schoolteachers, reform-minded landlords—men and women from across Mysore, Madras, and Travancore. The room wasn't just full of people. It was full of purpose.
Surya rose.
> "The British call this a civilised rule," he said, voice calm but firm.
"But what kind of civilisation starves people while exporting grain to London?"
The hall went silent.
> "We now have evidence," Surya continued. "They knew a drought was coming. Still, they shipped the stored grain—grain meant for the mouths of Bihar's poor—to England. Why? Because they only care for one thing: profit."
> "They take our cotton, wear it. They take our spices, eat them. They take our salt, sell it back to us. And still—they do not give us dignity."
He paused, looking across the hall.
> "These are not our people. They are rulers, yes—but rulers who divide us. They whisper poison between Rajputs and Marathas, between Hindus and Muslims, between princely states and British provinces."
A schoolmaster from Madras nodded gravely.
> "It started a hundred years ago," Surya went on. "They came as traders… and they became rulers. They built forts behind their shops, and turned our armies against one another."
> "But let's ask this: Who fires their guns? Who raids our temples and fields under their orders? Not Englishmen—our own brothers, our own sons, in red coats, following commands from men who speak in another tongue."
The room stirred with murmurs.
Surya struck the table gently with his palm.
> "We are not different. We are one."
> "One land—Bharat. One people—Bhartiya. Whether you are from Mysore or Mewar, Bengal or Bundelkhand, princely or British state—you are born of this sacred land."
Shyam looked up, visibly moved. Even Ramrajan leaned back, arms crossed, thinking.
> "We must remind the people," Surya declared.
"Tell them we are all Bhartiya. Tell them to stop seeing themselves as divided by lines drawn by foreigners."
> "Every grain they steal, every drop of sweat they exploit—it happens because we let them divide us."
There was silence again.
Then Ramrajan spoke.
> "You speak like a son of the land," he said slowly, a rare smile forming. "I see now why the wind carried you here."
He turned to the others.
> "Let this meeting be the beginning. From now, we don't just sell cloth—we stitch together our people."
The light from the tall brass lamps fell softly over shelves of books—some in Sanskrit, some in Persian, and now, a growing number in Hindi, English, and Kannada. The Singham family's personal press hummed faintly in the side room. Its iron wheels and wooden platen waited for the next idea to come alive in ink.
Surya stood by the carved rosewood desk, holding a sheaf of old British newspapers and journals collected from Madras and Calcutta. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from fury.
> "Father," he said, turning to Ramrajan, "we have ink, we have paper, and we have the truth. Why are we not writing more?"
Ramrajan glanced up from the Bihar reports.
Surya didn't wait. His voice rose like a fire building from embers.
> "We speak in meetings. We whisper in temples. But it's not enough. They use the press to glorify their rule. We must use it to expose their crimes."
He slammed the paper down on the desk, the sound sharp and clean.
> "Let the people know—the British who rule over us are the same who destroyed entire nations. Have we forgotten what they did in America?"
The room stilled. Ramrajan leaned forward. Even Shyam paused from his note-taking.
> "In the American plains," Surya continued, his voice grim, "they didn't just fight the Native tribes—they starved them deliberately. They killed the buffalo—the very animals that fed, clothed, and sustained the tribes. They slaughtered lakhs—not for meat, but to destroy a people's soul."
He picked up another old report, yellowed with time.
> "And now, look what they're doing in Bihar. There's a famine on the horizon. What do they do? They export the grain to London. They don't need food—they want control. They want us begging. Just like the buffalo—our wheat, our rice, our lives."
Shyam whispered, "History repeating."
Surya's voice cracked slightly—but he pressed on.
> "And what of Africa?" He held up another clipping. "These same 'civilised' rulers… captured black men like cattle, chained them, sold them like tools in slave markets. They auctioned human beings. Men, women, even children—bought and sold like sugarcane and spice."
> "And now, here, they talk of justice? Of peace?"
He turned to the printing press in the corner.
> "We must write a book. A paper. A hundred pamphlets if needed. Not just about India—about their empire, their lies, their hypocrisy. Let the common farmer know. Let the zamindar read. Let the teacher explain it in classrooms. Let no man call them heroes again."
Ramrajan finally rose, slowly walking toward his son.
> "You are not just thinking of today," he said softly. "You are thinking of tomorrow's Bharat."
He placed a hand on Surya's shoulder.
> "Then write it, beta. Write it with truth. Let it pierce through ink deeper than any British sword."
Surya nodded. The press in the next room was oiled and ready. The type blocks would be laid by nightfall.
> A new book would be born.
One not of poetry or prayers—
But of truth, pain, memory—and the beginning of a people's awakening.
...
The courtyard breathed with the warm scent of earth after a long dry wind. Lanterns flickered in brass holders as shadows stretched across the stone floor. Around the low table sat Ramrajan, Surya, Shyam, and two senior accountants, their ledgers open, their eyes intent.
Surya placed a thick file on the stone table between them. Papers rustled in the breeze like whispers of the future.
> "Pitaji," he said softly, eyes reflecting the flame of the brass oil lamp, "we've done something historic. The mills are humming, the looms are producing. But it's not enough."
Ramrajan turned to him with quiet attention.
> "The British… they thrive not because they are stronger," Surya continued. "They thrive because they are systematic. Their power isn't in their skin color or their rifles—it's in their alliances, institutions, and economic entanglements."
He stood slowly, walking the edge of the courtyard where neem leaves quivered in the wind.
> "They built the East India Company first—not an empire, but a business empire. Then they bought soldiers, then kings, then the courts. Even now, they divide. We—on the other hand—create cloth, save lives, feed people, build trust. But still, we stand alone. That must change."
Ramrajan's expression deepened into thought.
> "So what do you propose?"
Surya returned and pointed to the papers.
> "We form a Bhartiya Vyapar Sangh—a Confederation of Indian Enterprise. Textile is only one pillar. We offer our looms to other trusted merchants—not as clients, but as partners. Shared profit. Shared responsibility. Shared resistance."
He turned the pages of his handwritten ledger, revealing bold names inked in sharp calligraphy:
Jagat Seth family (Bengal) – for capital strength and coastal trade links
Patwardhan merchants (Pune) – dye masters, reliable with cotton
Malabar pepper guilds – perfect for spice-oil-textile fusion industries
Varanasi printers – potential to mass-produce books and spiritual literature
Amritsar wool traders – ideal for durable shawls and blankets for the north
Kashmiri shawl craftsmen – to preserve India's luxury in handloom weaving
Jaipur gemstone traders – possible integration with high-end sari embroidery
> "These are not just business ventures. They are defense mechanisms. If one is targeted by the British, the others rise in protection—because they all share the gain."
Ramrajan's voice was low and measured. "You mean… a web?"
> "Exactly. A web across Bharat," Surya nodded. "And not just merchants."
He pulled out another scroll—this one bearing royal seals.
> "We need rajas and maharajas who still believe in growth—not those who serve British medals for pensions. We invite only those who want to uplift their people, not suppress them."
---
🏰 Strategic Royal Allies for the Sangh Confederation
🟢 Southern Bharat Allies
Maharaja of Mysore (Wodeyar Dynasty) – Supports education and rail development
Maharaja of Travancore (Ayilyam Thirunal) – Strong in Sanskrit revival and reform
Nizam of Hyderabad (Mir Mahbub Ali Pasha) – Powerful and economically independent
🔴 Northern Bharat and Ganga Heartland
Raja of Banaras (Kashi Naresh) – Spiritual giant, neutral with British
Raja of Rewa – Supports agriculture and education
Maharaja of Gwalior (Jayajirao Scindia) – Modernizer with leverage over central India
🔱 Rajputana Kings (Only Proud and Progressive Houses)
Maharana Shambhu Singh of Udaipur (Mewar) – Direct descendant of Maharana Pratap, legacy of defiance
Raja of Bikaner (Dungar Singh) – Promoter of modern irrigation and army reform
Thakurs of Shekhawati – Rich trader-nobles, local banking traditions, cloth carriers
Maharawal of Jaisalmer – Desert cotton, camel-based economy—strategic for trade routes
---
Ramrajan leaned back, resting his palm against his knee.
> "And what do you offer them, Surya? Will they risk their thrones?"
> "Not revolution—revenue," Surya said firmly. "They won't join us for slogans—but for legacy. We offer equity in factories built on their land. A textile center in Mewar using Rajput motifs. A wool-dyeing center in Amritsar. A gemstone weaving line in Jaipur. They invest land and grain—we build machines and market reach."
Shyam added, "Also include book-printing centers in Kashi, Patna, and Gwalior. Partner with scholars. Educate through trade."
Surya nodded. "The more local jobs we create, the less power British officers have over Indian hunger. We can slowly starve their authority, just as they starved our people."
---
> "We must move before they move," Ramrajan concluded.
The night air grew still, as if listening. The neem tree rustled again. The flame danced higher in the oil lamp.
A new web was forming—not of silk, but of minds. Not of guns, but of partnerships.
It would not look like rebellion. But one day, it might become one.