Chapter 11-The Books of Bharat
Date: 10 January 1873
Location: Main Hall, Kolar Haveli
The fragrance of burning sambrani drifted through the marble corridors of Kolar Haveli, mingling with the morning aromas of cardamom chai and fresh neem leaves hung on the entrance. Outside, bullock carts rolled through the courtyard, loaded with wood and stone for the new textile factories under construction. Inside, the central hall was alive with quiet activity—scribes sorting scrolls, messengers awaiting orders, and accountants unrolling dusty ledgers.
Shyam stepped in, wiping the travel dust from his shawl. His eyes were weary from inspecting sites at the factory edges of the estate—but he stood tall, energized by purpose. Before he could call out to a servant, he noticed a familiar figure in the corner, sitting upright near a low writing desk carved with peacock motifs.
It was Surya.
Only three years of age by the records, but already he carried the stillness of a monk and the voice of a prince. He was barefoot, dressed in a cream-colored angavastram, a sacred thread across his chest, and a sandalwood tilak marking his brow. His hands were stained with ink—clear proof he had been writing.
As soon as Surya saw Shyam, he rose and offered a graceful "Namaskar, Shyam kaka."
Shyam smiled, walking over and bowing slightly in return. "Namaskar Surya , Already at your books?"
"Always," Surya replied softly, gesturing for Shyam to sit beside him.
They settled on floor cushions, the early sunlight warming the stone beneath them. Behind them, a shelf lined with manuscripts—some Vedic, some Persian, some British—loomed over the space like silent witnesses.
Surya looked up, his eyes alight.
"Kaka, how goes the textile construction?"
"Steady and strong," Shyam replied. "Machines are arriving. Steam engines are being tested. At this pace, we will begin production within the season."
Surya gave a short nod, but his focus shifted.
"And the printing mill?" he asked.
Shyam chuckled softly. "The first press is already installed. We've begun with small things—almanacs, accounting sheets, temple donations lists…"
But Surya leaned forward, interrupting gently, eyes shining with clarity.
"Then let us begin the real work, Kaka."
Shyam blinked. "Real work?"
Surya reached beside him and picked up a rolled note, opening it slowly. In his neat Devanagari script was a list—a long, sprawling vision.
"Print the Rigveda, Yajurveda, Samaveda, and Atharvaveda," he began. "With all their Brahmanas, Aranyakas, and Upanishads. In Sanskrit, yes—but also Kannada, Tamil, Bengali, Hindi, Marathi, and even English. Let every seeker of truth read them—without gatekeeping, without colonial filters."
He looked at Shyam with quiet urgency.
"They looted our granthas. They translated them, mistranslated them, and took credit. They published our ancient texts in their name. We must reclaim the truth."
Shyam's throat tightened. He knew this already—but hearing it from this child stirred something deep in him.
Surya continued:
"And not only dharma. Print the Siddhantas of Aryabhata, Bhaskara, and Varahamihira. The Samhitas of Charaka and Sushruta. Let every student know that surgery, planetary motion, algebra, zero, and pulse diagnosis were born in Bharat—not borrowed from the West."
Shyam now leaned closer.
"Do you want us to begin collecting texts?"
"Yes," Surya nodded. "From temples, from gurukuls, from old families. Many are still kept in palm-leaf form in the homes of Acharyas. We must preserve them before they decay—or before they are stolen and sent to the British Museum."
He paused, then added firmly:
"And history too, Kaka."
"History?"
Surya unrolled another scroll.
"Write the stories of our kingdoms—not as invaders see them, but as we know them. The Maurya Empire under Chandragupta and Ashoka. The Gupta golden age of Kalidasa and Aryabhata. The valiant rise of the Cholas, Pallavas, Satavahanas. The bravery of the Rajputs, the brilliance of the Ahoms, the wisdom of the Marathas. We must document every ruler, every contribution, in every region—from Kashmir to Kanyakumari."
Shyam whispered: "Even the forgotten dynasties…"
Surya smiled: "Especially the forgotten. The ones who ruled justly but were erased from British textbooks."
He then added in a quieter voice:
"And let every book proudly carry the names of the real authors—not Macaulay or Max Müller, but the Rishis, the Ganakas, the Vaidyas, the Maharanis. Let their names be remembered by the children of Bharat—not in footnotes, but on the front page."
Shyam was now deeply moved. The list in his hand was more than a plan—it was a revolution on paper.
"Surya , I will summon a team of scribes, translators, and printers. We will begin copying and typesetting the sacred and the scientific. And I will ensure every title bears the original name, untouched."
Surya's face lit up with contentment.
"Let knowledge flow freely, kaka. Not just to the rich or elite, but to every boy and girl in Bharat. In their own tongue. In their own history."
The two sat in silence for a moment as the breeze moved through the courtyard, rustling the leaves of a neem tree outside. The echoes of Surya's words lingered in the marble walls, as if the ancestors themselves had paused to listen.
In a land where wisdom once flowed like the Saraswati, the presses of Bharat would soon thunder again—not with orders from London, but with voices from the soil of Kolar.
Books not of submission—but of truth.
Not of conquest—but of continuity.
Not of empire—but of dharma.
---
The marble floor echoed with the sound of calm, purposeful footsteps. A gentle rustle of angavastram and the muted thud of a carved wooden cane marked the entrance of Ramrajan Singh, patriarch of the Singham family. His calm demeanor carried a quiet strength—one that could steady storms.
The large teak doors creaked slightly as they opened. Sunlight bathed the hall as Ramrajan stepped inside, his silhouette framed by golden light. The scent of sandalwood followed him—dignified, earthy, familiar.
Shyam immediately rose from the floor, folding his hands with respect.
"Namaskara, Appa."
Ramrajan smiled faintly and nodded. His gaze turned to little Surya, who sat beside a collection of scrolls and ink pots, his sharp eyes alight with curiosity and ideas well beyond his years.
"What discussions are unfolding here?" he asked, walking toward them. "Looks like the young master is drafting the future, and our steward is taking notes."
Shyam chuckled. "That's no exaggeration, Appa."
He gestured to the open scrolls. "Surya is planning the future of the printing mill—not just to make paper, but to print books. Real books, of Bharat. Not the ones the British sell in their shops, but the ones they tried to bury."
Ramrajan's expression deepened with interest.
"Books?"
Shyam nodded. "Books of Vedic knowledge, science, Ayurveda, mathematics, jyotishya-shastra. He wants them in every Indian language—from Tamil and Telugu to Kannada, Odia, Bengali, and Marathi. He wants to name the real authors—Aryabhata, Charaka, Sushruta—not some British man who copied from them."
Ramrajan looked at Surya. The boy was still and silent, but there was fire in his eyes.
The elder slowly walked to him and placed a weathered hand gently on his head.
"You carry the dharma of generations, kanna," he said softly.
"Even before learning, you are protecting what must be taught."
Turning back to Shyam, his voice became firmer.
"Begin. Send messengers to Madurai, Ujjain, Kanchipuram, and Tanjavur. We'll need scholars, scribes, and translators. And I… I will speak with temple caretakers and kings."
Shyam raised his eyebrows. "You mean to ask for their manuscripts?"
"Yes," Ramrajan replied. "Many palm-leaf manuscripts lie locked in temple granaries and royal libraries. We will request their blessings to copy and preserve them—for the nation, not for profit."
He paused, eyes sharp now.
"Let this be our answer. The British used their printing press to erase our history. We will use ours to restore it."
Surya whispered, almost to himself:
"This is not a press… it is a yajna. A sacred offering of knowledge."
The moment hung in silence. The light through the hall's jaali windows cast long, thoughtful shadows on the marble. In that moment, three generations of thought stood side by side—bound not by blood alone, but by a shared dream of awakening.
---
The hall was still humming with the energy of ideas when Ramrajan took a deep breath and glanced toward the rolled blueprints resting against a marble pillar. The late morning light filtered through the jaali windows, casting soft, latticed shadows across the white marble floor. Servants brought in brass tumblers of buttermilk and set them quietly by the side.
Ramrajan turned to Shyam and spoke in a firm but thoughtful voice.
"Our textile factory in Kolar—how many days more for the last beam?"
Shyam, ever precise, replied, "Fifteen days at most, Anna. Then the first steam spindle will turn."
Ramrajan nodded, satisfied. "Good. And once the looms begin their rhythm, the sound of Bharat's hands will return to its cloth."
Surya, sitting cross-legged nearby and still holding a reed pen stained with red ink, looked up thoughtfully.
"Then we must begin speaking with farmers now," he said with the sharp innocence of a child who did not yet know the limits of age or status.
"Cotton doesn't wait. If they prepare their fields, and know someone will take their crop fairly, they will work with more confidence."
Shyam tilted his head, impressed.
"That's true. I was thinking the same, but had not yet planned the steps. I'll send word to the taluks tomorrow. Let's start with those who already supplied raw cotton to the British ginning stations. Many of them lost hope after prices were cut."
Ramrajan's eyes crinkled with pride. "Let them know the Singham family pays fairly, and that the thread of our mill will carry their names too."
He walked slowly to a low table and unrolled a cloth map of South India.
"Also," he added, "once construction is finished, do not rush to the market. I want the looms running for at least two months—even if no thread is sold."
Shyam looked up, surprised. "No sales?"
"Let the workers learn every gear and spindle without pressure. Let the process settle like strong clay before the first design is pressed. Three months will also give us time to test the quality, adjust machines, and build storage."
He tapped the table lightly. "Once our name reaches the weavers, they must know it is unshakable."
Surya nodded, his young forehead furrowed with serious thought.
"Like the temple stones of Hampi. Strong and lasting."
Ramrajan smiled faintly at the comparison. Then, adjusting his shawl, he continued,
"I will go to the royal court in Mysore next week. It is time we offer the first sets of cloth as a gift to His Highness. Not as merchants—but as sons of this land."
Shyam bowed lightly. "Shall I prepare a carriage?"
"Yes. Select only the finest bolts from our sample stock. Cream-colored muslin, red-bordered khadi, and the rich indigo cottons. Pack them with care."
The conversation quieted for a moment, each man deep in thought. Beyond the haveli walls, the call of a distant conch echoed from the temple. The scent of heated turmeric and tamarind leaves floated in from the kitchen.
Ramrajan looked toward his son and said softly,
"Let the British call themselves masters of machines. We will become the caretakers of truth, cloth, and honor."
Surya smiled—a small, determined smile that spoke of more than his years.
-...
Date: Late January 1873
Location: Kolar Textile Mill → Mysore Royal Court
The rhythmic clatter of the loom echoed through the newly completed textile factory like the first drumbeat of a long-awaited yatra. After weeks of tireless labor, the wooden-framed mechanical loom—powered by steam and built by the hands of local blacksmiths, artisans, and mechanics—had begun its work. Cotton, once hand-spun by village women, now danced through wheels and pulleys, becoming fabric under watchful eyes.
Ramrajan stood silently at the threshold of the Kolar factory. Steam hissed gently in the background. Around him, the workers—some young, some gray-haired—stood in reverent silence as the first roll of cloth emerged. Five meters of soft muslin with a crimson border. Not perfect, but pure. Handmade by Bharat, for Bharat.
This first fabric was not for the market. It was carried with care to the nearby temple and placed before the murti of Goddess Lakshmi. The priest chanted a brief mantra and touched the cloth with vermilion and tulsi.
> "Let this cloth serve Dharma," the priest whispered. "May it dress our people with dignity."
---
Seven days later.
Ten wooden carts rattled down the road to Mysore, each piled high with bolts of cloth—muslin, coarse cotton, khadi, indigo-dyed fabric. Some were simple. Some were meant for royalty. All were woven not just with cotton, but with defiance.
This was not ordinary trade. This was a message.
Ramrajan rode at the front, shawl draped neatly over his shoulder. No soldiers, no drums. Just dignity. These carts would enter not just the city of Mysore, but its royal palace.
Inside the court, the Maharaja of Mysore sat in durbar, surrounded by noblemen and British envoys. India in 1873 was no longer a single empire. It was a land broken into princely states and presidencies, each under its own ruler—but watched carefully by British eyes.
Ramrajan entered the court quietly, bowed, and waited for permission to speak. The Maharaja, familiar with the Singham family's work in Kolar, signaled him forward.
Ramrajan spoke respectfully in Kannada:
"Maharajadhiraja, I bring before you the first textiles made not by British imports, but by our own machines. Built in Kolar. By our artisans. From the cotton of our farmers."
He motioned to the carts.
> "These bolts are not just fabric—they are the breath of a people reclaiming their craft."
The Maharaja stepped down from the throne and touched the fabric. It was warm from the sun, smooth under his palm, and thick with meaning.
He turned and spoke:
"You have brought not just cloth, Ramrajan-ji. You have brought the memory of what we once were—and what we still can be."
The court shifted. A few nobles whispered. A British official standing at the side narrowed his eyes slightly.
The king looked again at the cloth and said:
"In this fractured land of princely states, where we speak in many tongues and wear many crowns—perhaps these threads will remind us that beneath it all, we are still Bharatiya."
There was no thunderous applause. But there was a silence filled with weight. Some in the court looked stirred. Others uncomfortable. Politics, after all, moved in silks and shadows.
Ramrajan bowed once more. He had said enough. The message had been delivered—not in words, but in woven threads.
---
Date: Early February 1873
Location: Bangalore Cantonment, British Merchant Club
The sound of crystal glasses and rustling newspapers filled the smoky drawing room of the exclusive British Merchant Club in Bangalore. The leather chairs creaked as merchants lounged stiffly in their evening coats, sipping brandy and muttering under their breath.
A telegram had arrived from Mysore. Another from Travancore. And yet another from Hyderabad.
One British merchant, Mr. Hargreaves of the Madras Cotton & Shipping Company, dropped his telegram on the table and slammed his glass down.
> "Damn it. Every last bale of Mysore cotton has been bought by that blasted textile company—Singham & Sons or some such name."
His colleague, Mr. Allenby, raised a brow.
"The same family that built the Kolar paper mills?"
> "Yes. And now they're building looms—real ones. Not your village toy wheels. Steam-powered. Spinning cotton right here. And worse—they've signed deals with farmers. Exclusive ones."
The other merchants exchanged glances. This was more than a rumor.
Mr. Thompson from the Cochin Trade House lit his pipe, muttering,
"We've lost Travancore too. And there's a printing press now—some talk of Vedic books and native science being published."
Allenby stood up, pacing.
> "We thought they'd sell us raw cotton like always. Ship it to Manchester, weave it properly, sell it back here for a profit."
He looked out the window where a bullock cart rolled past the street, its cargo tarped—likely fabric.
> "But now they're keeping the cotton. Spinning it. Weaving it. Selling it. All here. And with their own branding."
The room grew tense.
The British merchants had long relied on India as a cheap supplier of raw cotton, paper pulp, and indigo. The idea that princely states like Mysore, Hyderabad, and Travancore were starting to retain, process, and manufacture locally—outside of colonial commercial channels—was not just inconvenient.
It was threatening.
> "The Maharaja of Mysore," Hargreaves added grimly, "has received their cloth in court. Publicly. With approval."
There was silence.
Mr. Allenby finally spoke, voice low:
"This... is a disruption. A dangerous one. We need to report this to the Madras Presidency. The Company must know what's happening."
Mr. Thompson crushed his half-smoked cigar in the ashtray.
> "If Bharat starts weaving its own destiny," he said, "the Empire might find itself unraveling... one thread at a time."
...