Chapter 14 - Fear of no monsoon
1 June 1873
Neem Tree Courtyard, Kolar Haveli
A gentle breeze rustled the neem leaves above as the early morning sun poured down like honey through the branches. Surya sat beneath the shade, his knees pulled to his chest, eyes fixed on the dust dancing in the wind. His thoughts were far from Kolar—carried northward by worry and memory.
The dream still echoed in his chest—famine, cracked earth, children with hollow eyes. Bihar.
He rose, brushed his kurta, and walked toward the inner hall where his father, Ramrajan, was reading correspondence beside a steaming tumbler of jaggery tea.
"Appa," Surya said softly.
Ramrajan looked up and smiled. "You've been under the neem again. What does the morning bring?"
Surya stepped forward, serious.
> "Appa, I've been thinking—not just about food, or grain... but about fear. And how we use it."
Ramrajan raised an eyebrow.
Surya continued, "If we tell people ourselves—'There will be famine in Bihar'—some will believe us. Most won't. The British may deny it. Merchants will mock us. But if a respected temple says it… if it comes from astrologers, pundits, the wise men of the dharmashala... then even landlords will hesitate to sell their grain. Even moneylenders will pause."
Ramrajan leaned forward.
> "You want the temples to predict the drought?"
Surya nodded. "Yes. Not as merchants. Not as rulers. But as witnesses of Dharma. Let the temples declare: 'The monsoon clouds may fail over Bihar. Famine may come. Let the people store grain, share water, and guard the poor.'"
He added, "Astrologers already read the stars. The priests know the nakshatras. Let them speak. Let fear do what reason cannot."
Ramrajan set down his tumbler slowly, the brass clinking against wood.
> "Clever," he murmured. "You don't shout fire in the market—you ring the temple bell."
He stood, looking out of the arched window toward the rising light.
> "If word spreads that a famine might come, people will act—even if it never arrives."
Surya added, "And we will ask questions in every village: 'What if famine comes? What will we do? What if our neighbors starve? What if the price rises?' Let the people ask, not us tell them. Then even the zamindars will feel the weight."
Ramrajan placed a firm hand on Surya's shoulder.
> "You may not wear the thread of a Brahmin, but your mind spins like Vyas."
He turned to call Shyam.
> "Send quiet word to the temples of Gaya, Kashi, Bodh Gaya, and even Mithila. Let them ask their astrologers about the monsoon stars. Let the priests begin the whispers."
He paused, then added:
> "If no one believes the merchant, they will still bow to the temple bell."
2 June 1873
Courtyard Office, Kolar Haveli
A faint knock echoed on the teakwood frame as Shyam stepped into the room where scribes and assistants were gathered around maps and reports. His face was unusually serious, and behind him stood a tall, dark-eyed man in a plain cotton kurta—Ram, the leader of Shyam's special field unit.
Shyam gestured, and the room hushed.
> "We have a task that requires not just speed, but silence. And belief."
Ram nodded with quiet authority, already knowing this was no ordinary assignment.
Shyam laid out a folded cloth map of North India across the table. The edges were weighted with ink pots and brass coins. His finger tapped the central Gangetic plain.
> "Bihar," he said. "Too quiet. No good rain this year, the grain reserves are weakening. But no one's watching. No one's listening."
He turned to the group, locking eyes with each man.
> "We are not the king. We cannot give orders to merchants, to landlords, to farmers. But we can shape their thoughts. And thoughts travel faster when whispered by someone they already trust."
He motioned to Ram.
> "Ram will lead the effort. His team will reach the heart of Mithila, Patna, Gaya, Bhagalpur. Your task is to create awareness—not panic, but concern. Understand?"
Ram stepped forward, voice calm but purposeful.
> "I will meet with the temple heads—senior pandits, astrologers who track the nakshatras. I will tell them: the signs point to a weak monsoon. A drought. A possible famine. Not certainty—possibility."
He looked to his men.
> "If the temples declare it, the people will believe. If the pundits say it's in the stars, even the landowners will store grain instead of selling it."
Shyam added sharply:
> "And once the astrologers speak, you—each of you—will spread the word. In every mandi, bazaar, and chowk. Use every whisper network. Say: 'There may be no rains this year. Even the temples have warned it. Do not waste grain. Famine may come.'"
One of the younger agents hesitated. "What if the British officers ask questions?"
Ram answered without flinching.
> "We're not predicting anything officially. We are only repeating what respected temples have said."
Another man chuckled nervously. "So... we create fear, but without shouting."
Ram nodded. "Yes. Like smoke before fire. Enough to make people store water. Enough to make the zamindars pause."
Shyam dismissed the gathering with a final instruction:
> "You have one week. Reports must return by the 10th. No noise. No names. Just whispers. Let the fear walk barefoot into Bihar."
As the men left in pairs, Ram rolled up the cloth map and tucked it under his arm. He would travel by nightfall—first to Gaya, then northward.
And as the doors closed behind them, the quiet campaign began.
Not with swords. Not with flags.
But with belief.
And fear.
---
Would you like Scene 3 to show Ram's meeting with the head astrologer in Gaya or perhaps show the effect of these whispers in a village grain market?
Certainly! Here's Chapter 14 – Scene 3, written in rich novel style, showing Ram's mission in Gaya and how his entire team spread the word through astrology, bazaar whispers, and subtle coordination.
---
Chapter 14 – Scene 3
Date: 4 June 1873
Location: Gaya, Bihar – Under the Peepal Tree at Vishnupad Temple
The ancient peepal tree outside the Vishnupad Mandir swayed gently in the warm wind. The temple bells echoed across the ghats, but amidst that holy stillness, a quiet meeting unfolded beneath the rustling leaves.
Ram sat opposite a dignified old man in saffron robes—Pandit Devdutt Mishra, the chief astrologer of the temple, known across Mithila for reading the stars and monsoon omens. His white beard danced with the breeze as his sharp eyes narrowed, listening to Ram's soft but urgent words.
> "Panditji," Ram said respectfully, his tone low and deliberate, "the signs are not good. Grain reports are falling. Rain clouds are late. And officials are silent."
The pandit adjusted his rudraksha mala, glancing at the worn parchment before him—an almanac of stars and planetary motion.
> "Even the Shukra graha appears disturbed," he murmured, then looked up, "But you don't want just a reading, do you?"
Ram folded his hands in a half-namaste.
> "No, Panditji. I need your voice. If you say it... if the temples say it... then people will listen. They will store food. They will act."
There was silence for a moment. Then the old man nodded.
> "You shall have it. I will announce during tomorrow's aarti that the monsoon may weaken, and the dharma of preparedness must begin. But you must ensure it does not become panic."
Ram gave a grateful bow.
🗣️ Across the City – Teamwork in Action
Ram was not alone.
All across Gaya, Patna, and the villages of Magadh, his team of over twenty trained men were already in motion. Each had their task:
Keshav and Rahim visited small temples and roadside sadhus, slipping coins and passing messages:
> "Panditji in Gaya says this year's monsoon is troubled. Let's not be careless."
Govind hired local bards and wandering astrologers to sit in chai stalls and haat bazaars, humming verses about old famines and how signs were returning.
In the grain market of Nalanda, a casual voice rang out near a weighing scale:
> "You remember the famine of '66? This year feels like that... even the stars are warning us."
In market squares, posters written in Maithili, Magahi, and Sanskrit began to appear on walls and temple doors:
"⚠️ Signs of Drought – Prepare with Wisdom. The Stars Foretell Weak Monsoon."
No name. No signature. Just fear.
🕯️ Evening, Back in Gaya
As dusk descended, Pandit Devdutt stood before the temple congregation and spoke with solemn grace:
> "Brothers and sisters, this year the monsoon may come late, or not at all. It is the duty of every householder to be wise—store grain, save water, and help neighbors. May Dharma protect all."
The crowd murmured, and by morning, the whispers had become warnings.
Ram watched from the temple steps as the fear he'd planted—strategically, silently—began to grow roots.
He didn't need force.
He didn't need a king's order.
Just belief.
And timing.
6 June 1873
Gaya, Bihar
Whispers in Print, Clouds in Waiting
The skies above Gaya had changed.
For days, the horizon was pale and washed in heat. No dark clouds loomed in the east, no teasing wind rustled the neem or tamarind trees. Instead, the sky hung still—colorless and unmoving, like a canvas waiting for its first stroke. The usual aandhi winds of May had been faint. The earth had cracked open in places, dusty and brittle, and the wells in the outer villages had already begun to dip.
Ram stood under the thatched awning of a roadside stall, a wet towel wrapped around his neck. The heat clung to his skin like a second layer.
> "Too quiet," he murmured. "Too still for June."
He wasn't a weather scholar. But after weeks of interviews with pundits, monsoon readers, astrologers, and old farmers, he knew the signs were off.
> "No pre-monsoon winds. No lightning. Even the birds are restless."
And so the next step began—not with thunder, but with ink.
---
🗞️ Ram's Journey into the Press
That evening, Ram walked briskly through the narrow lanes of Patna, past spice stalls and bookshops, toward a modest printing house tucked between two colonial buildings.
Inside, the air smelled of hot lead and burnt oil. The clack of the litho press echoed as men moved between benches, setting type by hand. Letters in Hindi Kaithi and Urdu scripts lay carefully arranged in metal trays.
At a corner table sat Pandit Shivnandan Sahay, the editor of the newly launched Bihar Bandhu. His long hair was oiled and tied back, and his fingers stained with ink.
> "Ram Babu," he greeted, raising an eyebrow, "You again?"
> "This time, not as a merchant," Ram smiled. "As a concerned citizen."
He placed a scroll on the desk, bound with cotton thread. Sahay untied it and read:
---
📰 "Dry Skies Over Bihar – A Time for Caution?"
> "In recent weeks, several districts across Gaya, Nawada, Arrah, and Saran have noted delayed cloud cover and weakened winds. The usual lightning in the west, often seen by the third week of May, has not appeared.
> In the villages near Rajgir and Jehanabad, temple astrologers have interpreted lunar signs that suggest a 'Mand Varsha'—a weak or broken monsoon.
> Grain reserves in some talukas are already below threshold.
> While the authorities have issued no warnings, villagers are advised to store grain, conserve water, and avoid early sowing.
> It is better to be prepared than caught unaware."
---
Sahay tapped the scroll thoughtfully.
> "Strong enough to stir concern," he said. "Gentle enough to not cause panic. Yes. I will run this on the front page."
> "Make sure it reaches Muzaffarpur and Gaya editions too," Ram added.
---
🖨️ In the Shadows of the Press
Meanwhile, Ram's Urdu-speaking agent Ibrahim visited the offices of Kohinoor, an Urdu newspaper with quiet influence among the educated elite and court scribes. He offered a rewritten version:
> "Monsoon patterns appear delayed across Patna Division. Elders in the madrasas suggest unusual humidity without rainfall—a rare sign of suppressed winds. The lunar phase aligns with old records of the year 1790, when droughts affected Bengal and Bihar simultaneously."
That phrasing was no accident. Scholars would recognize it. And fear it.
---
🌧️ The Psychology of Rain
The people of Bihar had learned to watch the skies. The rhythm of monsoon was their lifeline:
The first streak of lightning in May.
The khushboo—the earthy smell of the first drops hitting dry soil.
The cry of the peacock, the rustling of mango leaves, the scent of wet cow dung.
But in 1873, none of these had come.
> "It's June already," murmured a tea-seller in Arrah. "Not a drop."
> "Even the frogs are silent," said a barber in Muzaffarpur.
So when newspapers began whispering of a weak monsoon, the message found fertile ground. Like the first gust of dust-laden wind before a real storm, the fear began to stir.
---
🗣️ Village to Village, Bazaar to Bazaar
By 9 June, whispers had turned into kitchen talk.
In temples, priests mentioned the articles after morning aartis.
In town squares, schoolteachers read headlines aloud to farmers and traders.
In grain markets, buyers hesitated. Sellers locked up their sacks.
> "Store now," they said, "prices will rise."
In Gaya's weekly haat, Ram passed two men arguing near a cloth stall.
> "I told you! Bihar Bandhu printed it! No rain this year!"
> "But the British said nothing!"
> "And do they ever tell us before it's too late?"
Ram walked away quietly, content. His strategy had taken root. No declaration. No rebellion. Just… awareness. The best kind of resistance.