Chapter 15 -Ignorance of the Empire
3 June. 1873
Patna Residency Office & Calcutta Fort William
The ceiling fans creaked slowly in the Patna Residency. Outside, the heat rippled the air like a silken veil, dry and sharp. Inside, two British officers sat reviewing correspondence from Bihar's district collectors, fingers stained with ink and impatience.
Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Holloway, Chief Officer for Grain Logistics, leaned back in his chair with a dismissive grunt.
> "More panic nonsense," he muttered, tossing a folded letter onto the table. "Some pandits and peasants crying drought again."
Major Henry Bellingham, younger and far more idealistic, picked up the parchment and read aloud:
> "Reports from Gaya and Champaran suggest no rainfall activity till now. Villagers are storing grain. Temple astrologers claim a drought is imminent…"
Holloway scoffed.
> "Temple astrologers? Really? We're to halt imperial grain exports because some barefoot priest saw a dry mango tree and panicked?"
Bellingham hesitated.
> "Still, sir… last year's monsoon did come late. And if these temple leaders are already spreading the word…"
> "Let them chatter," Holloway said sharply. "There's no scientific evidence of failure yet. Besides, the ships for Calcutta are already loaded."
He stood and walked to the large wooden map pinned to the wall. A red line stretched from Bihar's grain depots to Calcutta Port, and from there, thin blue threads led across the sea—London, Liverpool, Southampton.
> "Three shipments, fifteen hundred tonnes of rice and pulses. This year's contract with the East India Company is secure. Let the Crown have its harvest."
Bellingham didn't argue. He simply folded the letter and slid it under a stack of unopened reports.
---
🚢 Calcutta Port – A Week Later
On the misty grey docks of Garden Reach, the grain sacks were being hauled like treasure. Workers sweated under the weight, unaware their labor now floated between life and starvation for thousands of their own countrymen.
A shipping agent muttered to a foreman:
> "This grain came from Gaya… that lot from Ara and Bhagalpur."
> "Is it safe to move so much, sahib?" the foreman asked hesitantly. "They say rain is gone. Villagers speak of famine."
> "Famine or festival," the agent snapped. "We don't delay for folklore."
And so, the first ship, SS Hampshire Belle, set sail—its dark iron belly full of rice, wheat, and lentils grown in Bihar's soil, bound not for starving mouths, but British warehouses and army stockpiles.
---
🕯️ In the Villages
The skies remained bare.
In village temples, pandits warned of coming hunger.
In quiet fields, farmers feared the dryness in their palms.
But in the halls of empire, grain moved not by mercy, but by schedule.
10 June 1873
Rural Bihar
The sun had turned cruel.
It rose earlier each morning and lingered longer in the sky, as if mocking the land below. In the fields of Gaya, Nalanda, and Saran, the soil had hardened into clay, cracked like an old man's palms. Even the wind had changed—once playful, now dry and restless. It carried no scent of rain, no moisture from the distant sea. Only dust.
And still, not a drop.
Across the lanes and thatched roofs of every village in Bihar, one word passed from mouth to mouth like an old curse:
> "Drought."
🐃 In the Villages
Under the thatched eaves of a grain merchant's hut in Nawada, three farmers sat cross-legged on woven mats. A pot of buttermilk lay untouched between them, its rim drying in the heat.
> "The pundits were right," one whispered. "No clouds. Not even a breeze from the west."
> "My grandfather said in a year like this, even the neem trees stop blooming. And look—they've gone dry."
> "They say no monsoon till Shravana," another said, barely above a breath. "That's too late for planting."
In the corner, a child sat near the fire pit, clutching a damp cloth to her cheek. Her mother fanned her slowly, watching the sky beyond the courtyard wall.
> "There will be famine," she murmured. "There will be hunger."
🧓🏾 Village Elders Act
In Vaishali, the village headman gathered the elders beneath a banyan tree. They sat silently, listening as he read aloud from a copied article from Bihar Bandhu.
> "…a Mand Varsha year… grain reserves to be protected… delay sowing till further clarity."
> "We will lock half our grain," he said firmly. "No selling outside the village. And no landowners raising prices."
He looked directly at the wealthiest landlord present.
> "If you hoard, your house will burn first."
No one disagreed.
🐂 Poor Prepare in Silence
In the smaller hamlets—like Sikandra, Harnaut, and Bakhtiyarpur—the poor prepared with quiet urgency.
Water pots were refilled from deep wells and sealed with cloth.
Grains were dried in the sun and stored in earthen jars, hidden behind beds or beneath kitchen floors.
Goats were sold to distant traders for a handful of silver.
Mothers whispered bedtime prayers for clouds.
> "Don't worry, beta," said one mother, brushing her child's hair. "Sawan will come. Maybe late. But it will come."
But her voice lacked the certainty her words claimed.
🗣️ The Power of Rumor
In the bazaar of Bettiah, men leaned on cane stalls and murmured:
> "I heard the British officers are preparing to import grain—like they knew in advance."
> "Import grain? Why not help our farmers store it now?"
> "You ask too many questions."
The whispers were growing into suspicion. Not toward the skies, but toward those who claimed control.
🌾 Hope with Caution
And yet… people were not helpless. Not this time.
Thanks to the early warnings—however mysterious their origins—the villagers of Bihar were preparing weeks in advance:
Some dug new wells before the water tables fell further.
Others built mud granaries beside their homes.
A few women formed informal groups, pooling flour, lentils, and firewood together.
> "We will eat together if we starve," one said. "But we will not beg."
The sky above remained blank.
No peacocks cried.
No frogs sang.
Only the people moved—quietly, cautiously—choosing survival over denial.
...
15 June 1873.
Shadow spreads
North India – Regions surrounding Bihar
The drought was not yet real.
Not officially declared by any British office, nor marked in any gazette—but the fear had already taken root.
It moved faster than clouds, whispering through trade routes and temple towns, through grain markets and caravan stops. What began as anxious talk in the villages of Bihar soon reached the wider North Indian plains—to eastern Uttar Pradesh, northern Bengal, parts of Jharkhand, and even the low hills near Nepal.
🐘 In the Halls of the Zamindars
In a haveli near Ballia, a young landlord named Kunwar Lallan Singh leaned forward on a teak desk, his fingers tapping a silver-inlaid map of the region.
> "Bihar is drying," he murmured to his steward. "And if they lose monsoon, so will we."
The steward, a wiry man with sharp eyes, whispered:
> "Grain merchants in Chapra and Buxar have stopped selling already. Some fear looting if word spreads faster."
> "What about British contracts?"
> "They haven't come yet," he replied. "But they will."
> "Then we must decide before they arrive."
---
🛖 In Grain Markets of North India
In Gorakhpur, the large grain mandi was unusually quiet. Piles of wheat, bajra, and rice sat under brown cloth covers, guarded by men with sticks.
A grain trader from Deoria, wiping his sweat-stained turban, whispered to a rival:
> "You heard the same, didn't you?"
> "About Bihar? I did."
> "No rain. If we're smart, we won't sell either."
> "What about the Company officers? Their orders?"
> "Let them send ships. We'll send them silence."
Behind their stalls, rows of wooden storage bins were being sealed shut with wax and cow dung. Not a single sack would move without double its usual price.
---
📜 A Shift in Loyalty
Until now, merchants had quietly exported grain to British outposts—fulfilling quotas, bribing customs, and padding their pockets.
But now… the thinking changed.
> "Why send wheat to Calcutta when there's starvation at our door?"
> "Let the British import their own. This time, Bharat needs Bharat's grain."
Zamindars and merchants began forming private pacts. Entire villages were warned not to sell to outsiders, especially pale-skinned agents offering silver. Watchmen were placed on main roads. Some even paid Brahmin astrologers to publicly confirm a coming drought—to justify hoarding.
---
🦢 Profit in Scarcity
Of course, not all were noble.
Some zamindars saw opportunity—not compassion. In Motihari, a merchant named Gulab Rai whispered to his son:
> "Let the price rise. Every day of silence brings gold."
> "But people will starve."
> "Not ours. We have stock. When they cry loud enough, they'll pay anything."
In a warehouse behind his home, nearly 1,000 maunds of rice sat sealed under tarpaulin, guarded like treasure.
---
📜 Letters & Warnings
In Varanasi, Pandit Govind Ram, head of a large temple trust, received a letter from a village in eastern Bihar:
> "No rain. No planting. Only prayers. Please advise."
Govind Ram read it twice, then looked at the young student waiting before him.
> "Send word to other mathas and mutts. Tell them to prepare granaries. And stop grain from flowing east. We may save lives—if we act now."
---
🔍 Observation & Anticipation
News of the growing crisis also reached discreet ears—local reformers, nationalist-minded thinkers, and elders who remembered 1770.
They began keeping quiet ledgers:
Rainfall recorded in Gaya: Zero since May
Reservoirs in Patna: Two feet below normal
Migrant reports from Saran and Muzaffarpur: No sowing underway
They weren't waiting for a British officer to declare a famine. They had seen how late such declarations arrived—when the bodies had already begun to fall.
---
The land hadn't cracked yet—but the minds of the people had changed.
Not toward despair.
But toward self-defense.
Toward profit and preservation.
Toward control.
And for the first time in a long while, the British weren't the ones calling the shots in the grain trade.
The grain would stay in Bharat.
...
25 June 1873
Quiet Fires Begin to Burn
Patna, Kashi, Gaya, Calcutta, Allahabad
The skies over Bihar remained silent.
No clouds, no breeze, no sign of the monsoon. The scent of damp earth—the most awaited promise of relief—was missing. And though no formal announcement had been made, the land already whispered a single word:
Drought.
But this time, unlike the great famines of past decades, the silence did not remain unchallenged. In shaded verandahs, under temple halls, behind closed wooden doors of printing presses—the reformers had begun to speak.
---
📚 Patna – The House of Print
In a small two-story building near Ashok Rajpath, Pandit Shivnandan Sahay, the editor of Bihar Bandhu, sat at his desk surrounded by loose sheets and typeset trays.
His assistant entered, out of breath.
> "Panditji, the astrologers in Gaya are declaring drought in public sermons now."
Shivnandan adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, nodding.
> "It is unusual... but perhaps necessary. Print the editorial. We will ask: 'If the rains fail—who is responsible for the people?'"
> "But will the British allow it?"
> "Let them try to stop it," he said. "They do not own the sky."
And with that, the first editorials warning of a coming famine began to roll off Bihar's Hindi presses—quiet but firm.
---
🕊️ Calcutta – Echoes of the Brahmo Samaj
In Kolkata, inside the high-ceilinged hall of the Brahmo Samaj, Keshab Chandra Sen paced slowly, a letter in hand.
It was from a Brahmo teacher in Gaya, outlining unusual dryness, seed failure, and increased temple anxiety.
Sen turned to his gathered students.
> "Do not wait for the Raj to care. Famine is not just weather—it is neglect."
> "What shall we do?" asked a young schoolteacher from Bhagalpur.
> "You must teach villagers to store, to prepare. Speak from pulpits and in schools. Let us awaken conscience before death awakens us."
And so, sermons and pamphlets flowed from Brahmo networks toward Bihar—urging grain conservation, restraint, and Swadeshi morality.
---
🕯️ Varanasi – The Pen of Bharatendu
In the city of ghats and flame, Bharatendu Harishchandra sat under a flickering oil lamp, scratching a sharp nib across a blank scroll.
> "Let not the gods be blamed for the cruelty of kings," he muttered.
His play, a satire titled "Anyaay ka Barasat" (The Monsoon of Injustice), showed corrupt rulers drinking wine while peasants withered. It wasn't subtle.
> "Print it in Hindi and Urdu both," he told the pressman. "Send copies to Kanpur, Patna, and Lucknow."
The stage would now join the protest, with laughter as its dagger.
---
🔥 Reformers in Motion
While the British debated trade routes and balance sheets, these Indian thinkers—men of print, stage, and prayer—acted with a quiet urgency.
They knew the famine would not only come from the skies but from the apathy of those who governed from distant mansions.
---
🛡️ Quiet Revolutionary Seeds
In the shadows of Jagdishpur, a local schoolteacher named Raghu Pratap Singh, a grand-nephew of Kunwar Singh, gathered young men each week.
> "The British care for grain exports more than human lives," he said. "In 1857, we fought with swords. Now we fight with schools, shops, and sacks of wheat."
Songs of Kunwar Singh's bravery were still sung in Bhojpuri at night. But now, they were followed by quiet plans—to block British grain traders, to hide rice for the poor, to help orphans before the hunger took them.
---
🎓 Swami Dayanand on the Road
Meanwhile, Swami Dayanand Saraswati, still two years away from founding the Arya Samaj, was already moving through Uttar Pradesh and western Bihar.
He stood barefoot before crowds in Mathura and Ghazipur:
> "Do not beg from those who rule you. Store for your own. The Vedas speak of strength—not servitude."
Though not all understood his words, they understood his tone: self-reliance.
---
🧭 Conclusion: The Other Front
As the British focused on contracts, ports, and rail yards—another resistance was building.
One of grain, not guns.
Of information, not edicts.
Of Bharat's minds, rather than its masters.
And when the skies finally broke—or didn't—the people of Bihar would not be alone this time.
They had their own voices.
...