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Chapter 7 – The First Breath of Industry
Two moons had passed since Shyam's riders had returned with diagrams and knowledge from distant corners of the south.
The godown was now alive not just with tools and words, but with the sounds of wooden beams being raised, stone basins being sealed, and young apprentices learning to shape pulp by hand.
It was not yet a factory.
But it was something more powerful—a beginning.
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In the shade of the eastern grove, nestled near the mulberry trees, the estate's first paper mill began its breath. It was not grand like the British mills in Kent, or powered by steam like the new-age plants near Glasgow or New York.
No, this mill was quiet.
Driven by hands, levers, and sunlight.
But behind every drying sheet, behind every bark-soaked vat, was a memory—Surya's first piece of paper, now framed above the inner wall.
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Ramarajan, standing beside Rahim Ustad, watched the workers with quiet pride.
They were experimenting—just as the British had, decades ago.
They used rags, soaked and beaten in manual Hollander-style beaters made from teak and iron.
They tried mulberry bark mixed with cotton linters, soaked in barrels, pressed into fibrous pulp.
Without access to full bleaching chemicals like chlorine, they used lime and sun-drying to whiten the sheets.
Rahim explained:
> "We cannot yet use steam rollers or Fourdrinier belts like the Europeans. But this…"
"This will give us fine paper for ledgers, books, and writing."
Nearby, Mr. Daniel guided the apprentices in sheet formation—pouring pulp over silk mesh, draining water, layering fibers.
Surya, though still a small child, watched it all with deep attention.
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> "They have machines," he thought,
"but we have understanding. The machines will come."
He had seen such devices in his past life—Fourdrinier machines, pulp grinders, steam rollers. He knew what they were made of. And he knew what would be needed next.
> "Appa," he whispered to Ramarajan, "we need wheels and heat if we want to dry faster."
Ramarajan smiled gently. "And where shall I find wheels that turn without bullocks?"
Surya looked at the ceiling, then at the sunlight pouring through the slats.
> "The sun turns every day. So can we."
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🌿 In the workshop journals:
Shyam began keeping daily notes, preserved on handmade paper.
He documented:
Material tests — cotton vs mulberry vs straw
Drying times under different sun exposures
Labor distribution — from bark washing to pulp layering
Production yield — nearly 50 sheets per day after two weeks
They knew this was only the beginning.
But it was real.
Their own paper. Their own process. Their own future.
By the time the first hundred sheets of Kolar-made paper dried under the summer sun, the scent of bark and lime had already spread through the estate like a quiet rumor.
In the godown, Shyam and his men compared the new product against the imported stock.
The British paper, though sleek and bright, arrived by ship—heavily taxed, often delayed, and always costly.
The local paper, thick, firm, and slightly coarse, came from their own soil. Its quality was modest—but honest. And its cost was a fraction.
Shyam ran his fingers along both, then said in a quiet tone:
> "One is polished by steam, the other by sweat. But ours does not ask permission to exist."
Still, Ramarajan knew that good work alone was not enough.
They were subjects of a princely state—not yet masters of their own laws. No industry, no trade, no factory of any weight could stand without the King's goodwill.
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🐘 A Political Offering
Ten carts were prepared.
Each filled with neatly stacked bundles of the first paper, tied with silk twine and wrapped in cloth, with the family seal impressed in wax.
Before the carts left, Ramarajan stood in prayer before the home shrine. He then spoke to Shyam:
> "This is not just an offering of labor. It is an appeal for protection."
> "Let none say we began this work in secret. Let it be known—we place our efforts beneath the feet of our King."
Shyam bowed. He understood.
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🏛️ In the Court of Mysore
At the Amba Vilas Palace, courtiers whispered as the ten carts entered. Rare was the day a nobleman brought goods not for tribute, but for review.
In a chamber draped with Mysore silks and sandalwood screens, Ramarajan presented his case to the Maharaja.
He began not with business—but with respect:
> "Maharaj, this land blooms because you bless it."
"We have begun a small endeavor—not for glory, not for challenge, but for use."
"This paper was made in your dominion, by your subjects, with no foreign permission. Only with your name can it grow."
The King took a single sheet, placed it beneath his hand, and tested the stroke of his pen.
He looked at Ramarajan and said,
> "You asked first—not after you succeeded, but before. That is the mark of one who remembers who rules the soil."
Then, without turning to his ministers, the Maharaja declared:
> "Let it be known, this venture shall go forward under my favor. And from this day, it shall bear a name worthy of our land."
> "Kōṇar Kāgad Kāryalaya"
The Kolar Paper Office
He paused, then added with a deeper tone:
> "The British are welcome guests. But their paper need not rule our pens."
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🌿 Power in a Seal
With the King's verbal blessing, Ramarajan now held more than approval—he held legitimacy.
In Mysore, no customs officer would question his trade, no noble would mock his ambition, and no British agent could easily move against him without drawing attention.
Later that week, a royal scribe delivered an official letter bearing the palace seal.
It stated:
> "This enterprise is acknowledged and favored by the Lion Throne of Mysore."
"It shall serve the land and its knowledge, and stand under His Highness's grace."
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Back in Kolar, when Surya held the seal-stamped document in his small hands, his eyes lit up.
> "One day," he whispered, "this paper will carry not just royal blessings… but ideas that wake the nation."
...
The sun had begun its slow descent behind the banyan trees, casting golden streaks across the stone courtyard of the haveli. The scent of sandalwood smoke lingered from the evening's aarti, and the gentle rustle of silk sarees faded into the distance as the household women returned to their rooms.
In the courtyard, little Surya sat quietly on the cool red stone floor, his tiny legs folded beneath him, his posture straight like a disciplined yogi. In his small palm rested a silver rupee coin—fresh, heavy, and perfectly round. It glinted softly in the last rays of the sun, its edges slightly worn, its symbols proud and regal.
On one side, the double-headed Gandaberunda, emblem of the Wodeyar kings, spread its wings across the curve of the coin. On the other, the familiar Kannada script declared the denomination. It was not just money. Not to Surya.
He tilted the coin slowly, watching how it caught the light.
> "So much power in one coin," he thought. "So much... history."
He let it rest on his lap and placed his fingers over it gently, as if protecting a secret.
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🪙 The Coin as Memory
In his past life, money had become invisible—mere numbers in a machine. But here, in 1871, every rupee had weight, sound, and meaning.
He remembered reading in his old life that this very coin—this Mysore rupee—was about 11.66 grams of pure silver. And he remembered something else: the value of silver in the faraway year of 2025.
> "Eighty rupees a gram... sometimes a hundred."
He calculated silently in his mind.
One coin—₹950 to ₹1,200.
The wind rustled through the neem leaves above, like the soft turning of pages in a ledger.
> "One coin here... could be a thousand rupees in the world I left behind."
But this wasn't just about silver. This was about life—the cost of it, the price of dignity, the value of knowledge.
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📖 A Thought Deeper Than a Child's Years
He glanced around. No one was nearby. Only the wind, the trees, and the coin in his lap.
> "In this year, a poor man earns maybe ₹5 a month," he thought.
"That's five rupees for thirty days of sweat and sunburn."
> "A basic meal costs five paisa. One rupee feeds a man for a week."
"Ten to fifteen kilos of rice."
"A full cotton dhoti for half a rupee."
> "A ream of British paper costs three rupees. More than half a month's wages."
He clenched the coin slightly in his palm.
> "So learning... knowledge... costs more than food."
> "And who can pay that?"
His face remained calm, but his heart stirred.
> "If only the rich can read, then only the rich will rule."
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⚖ A Child's Resolve
In the quiet, Surya stood up.
He walked slowly to the edge of the veranda and looked at the narrow road that led from the estate to the village beyond. Somewhere out there, a child like him might never touch a book. Might never know how much power lay in a coin like this.
> "One rupee," he murmured to the trees,
"can be a full belly.
Or a blank page.
Or a full future."
And then, smiling to himself, he whispered:
> "In my last life, money ruled men.
In this one... I will make it free minds."
The silver coin still shone in his hand—but now it seemed lighter. Not because it had lost its value.
But because Surya had just given it purpose.
The morning sun filtered through the neem trees that lined the temple road, casting soft shadows on the stone-paved path. It was not a festival day, yet a sense of quiet gathering filled the air. From the east side of the town, two ox-drawn carts rolled slowly into place. They came not with spices or textiles, but with something far lighter—bundles of carefully wrapped white paper, tied in jute string.
The carts halted near the temple steps. A thin wooden board tied to the front read in bold, dark lettering:
"Kolar Kāgaz – Our Paper for Our People"
Price: ₹1.50 per ream
Men from nearby shops stepped out, wiping their hands on their dhotis. Women looked up from vegetable stalls. The temple priest, who had just finished morning aarti, narrowed his eyes with curiosity.
An old merchant with a trimmed grey beard stepped forward and picked up a sheet from the pile. He rubbed it gently between his fingers. "Smooth," he said to himself. "Not like our usual brown kagaz."
A young man from the haveli, standing near the cart, smiled and explained, "It is pressed with machines, sir. From pulp, not rags. It doesn't blot, and it dries well."
A schoolteacher from a nearby village, still smelling of ink and chalk, approached and asked, "It's not from Calcutta or Madras?"
The young man shook his head. "No, sir. Made here, in Kolar. From our own new mill."
There was silence for a moment. Then the schoolteacher looked at the neat stack again. "Only one and a half rupees? For a full ream?"
"Yes," said the boy. "If you buy in bulk, even less."
A small group gathered. A notary from the taluk office picked up a sheet. "British paper costs five or six rupees, depending on finish," he muttered. "This… this feels just as good."
"And that's not even the fine parchment," another man said. "This is just writing paper."
A man in a green shawl stepped forward with coins clinking in his pouch. "Can I buy a hundred sheets?" he asked.
"Certainly," replied the seller. "We sell by quire too—one-twentieth of a ream."
"Good," the man said. "For my son. He wants to practice his letters. I can't afford British paper for him."
Not far away, Surya sat on the stone ledge of the temple tank, legs folded, his grandmother beside him. Though only six years old in body, his eyes held the watchfulness of something older. He watched the villagers react—not just to the price, but to the feeling of possibility that came with it.
He turned to his grandmother and whispered, "Now even a farmer can teach his son to write on clean pages."
Kalyani smiled and gently adjusted the black thread around his wrist. "You've brought paper to Kolar," she said. "Let us see what else your mind brings."
The temple pujari approached, holding a sample. He sniffed it, rubbed it, tested it under sunlight. "It is white," he said, almost reverently. "But not foreign."
A murmur of agreement rose. One man declared, "This is for us. Not for sahibs, not for officers. For our own people."
An elderly lawyer, respected in the taluk, adjusted his shawl and finally spoke. "When a scribe and a farmer can both afford the same paper, you know the balance has shifted."
That evening, as the carts rolled back toward the haveli, now half-emptied, Surya approached his father, Ramarajan. He carried a crumpled sample page in one hand and an old silver rupee in the other.
"Appa," he said, looking up, "these pages will travel farther than bullock carts ever can."
Ramarajan looked at his son, then at the coin in his hand, gleaming faintly in the firelight.
"People may not know our name," he said slowly, "but they'll know what we gave them to write on."
Surya smiled gently. "And someday, Appa, they'll remember Kolar—not for gold in its ground, but for thoughts it set free on white pages."
At that time, Kolar was not known for gold. That would come years later, when the British would sink their drills into the earth and call it treasure. But tonight, the town had already struck something more precious—dignity through ink, access through paper, and the beginning of something quietly powerful.
.