Chapter 16 - Letter of Ram
Kolar Estate, Karnataka
The neem trees rustled faintly outside, their leaves trembling in the dry summer wind. Inside the high-ceilinged hall of the Kolar Estate, Ramrajan sat at his desk, the soft scratching of his pen occasionally pausing as he reviewed daily correspondence. Just then, a courier entered and bowed respectfully.
> "Message from Bihar, sir," he said, handing over a dusted envelope sealed with red wax.
Ramrajan opened the first letter. It was from Ram, their appointed coordinator stationed in Gaya. As he read, his brows narrowed—not in surprise, but in confirmation.
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📜 Letter from Ram – 10 June 1873
> "Respected Ramrajan ji,
I write to you from a land that waits for the sky to break, yet nothing comes but heat and cracked soil. The monsoon is absent. The riverbeds of Sone and Falgu are lowering. In villages from Nawada to Muzaffarpur, the fear is no longer a whisper—it is a daily conversation at the well, at the mandir, in the haat.
People have begun preparing on their own. Some dig deeper wells. Others store whatever pulses and grains they have left in hidden clay pots. Mothers are teaching children how to eat less. Families have begun skipping meals—not from hunger, but to prepare for what they know will come.
Most importantly, the grain traders of Patna, Gaya, and Bettiah have refused British agents. 'We'll not sell even one sack beyond the Ganges,' one of them told me. The word of drought has done more than we imagined—it has ignited caution, if not yet rebellion.
I request permission to stay in Bihar longer. I can expand communication with new couriers across Bhagalpur, Arrah, and Champaran. With your blessing, I will spread our warning into every language and dialect that echoes in these dusty lanes."
Ramrajan finished the letter and looked at Surya, who had been quietly listening.
> "Send the reply immediately," he said, his voice steady. "Tell him to stay. Tell him this isn't about prophecy—it's about protecting our people."
15 June 1873
The hot wind blew stronger now. The sky remained a cruel blue, unbroken by clouds. Another courier arrived—face burnt from travel, turban soaked in sweat.
This second letter, again from Ram, was longer, and thicker.
...
> "Respected Ramrajan ji,
Conditions worsen. The last ten days have brought no rain. Earth is cracking. Grain stores are guarded now like temples.
But there is hope: The temples themselves have risen to action. In Gaya, Rajgir, and even distant Vaishali, the pandits have begun to speak in hushed voices about grain. Donation boxes are being opened—not for rituals, but to purchase food.
I visited the Mahabodhi Temple in Gaya. The head pujari has asked local farmers to sell grain only to villagers and religious kitchens. I heard something even more striking in Rajgir: A local mandir has ordered large pots, preparing for community feeding if the crisis deepens.
We are planting not seeds, sir, but discipline and preparation. Village elders now advise children not to waste even a grain of rice.
But I warn you: British officials are blind. They continue to mock these actions as 'panic superstition.' Grain from last year's harvest is still being exported via Hajipur and Danapur.
And so the people prepare. Quietly. Righteously. Together."
Ramrajan closed the second letter slowly, and looked out of the window.
> "They mock the people's fear, but we know what silence before the storm sounds like," he murmured.
...
Ten days later, on an overcast morning, another letter arrived—this one sealed differently, with the faint crest of a reformist organization.
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> "To Ramrajan ji,
The fire is spreading—but not in destruction, in awareness.
From Patna to Bhagalpur, a different class has begun to stir. The reformers—the Brahmo Samaj speakers, Arya Samaj sympathizers, even a few English-educated teachers—are now acting. They are holding informal meetings in courtyards and ashrams. They are printing small booklets in Kaithi and Urdu scripts: 'Don't sell your food', 'Feed your village first', 'The rains may not come'.
In Muzaffarpur, a Hindi newspaper called Bihar Bandhu has printed an article quoting astrologers predicting a delayed monsoon. This is not mere alarm—it is strategy.
Educators are writing letters to zamindars, urging them not to lease grain fields to exporters. A Sanskrit teacher in Arrah told me: 'This land fed warriors during 1857; it shall not starve its own now.'
This time, the resistance wears no uniform. It carries no gun. But it is rising—letter by letter, kitchen by kitchen, school by school.
We are watching Bharat awaken from the soil."
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Ramrajan's Reaction
Ramrajan placed the third letter beside the others on his table, his gaze distant yet burning. He stood slowly, walked to the wall, and looked at the large map of India pinned behind his desk.
> "Three letters," he said, "and one truth: the land can defend itself, if the soul is not sold."
He turned to Surya.
> "Now we must prepare our second step. Because the British will either laugh, or they will panic—and in both cases, they'll betray their true nature."
...
26 June 1873
British Residency, Patna
The ceiling fan creaked above the long teakwood table where two British officers sat, sleeves rolled up, red-faced and agitated. On the table lay scattered reports—letters from grain traders refusing shipment, whispers of temple-led grain storage, and pamphlets warning of drought.
Major William Cartwright, a man whose moustache seemed to bristle with pride and contempt at once, slammed his palm on the table.
> "Bloody fools," he barked, "this is nothing but engineered hysteria!"
Beside him, Lieutenant George Harwood flicked through a translated Hindi leaflet.
> "They're listening to priests now," he scoffed. "Astrologers claiming the gods won't send rain. And people believe it."
A silence hung for a moment, broken only by the cicadas humming beyond the window shutters.
Cartwright leaned back, voice lower now—calculating.
> "You know what this means, don't you? They're hoarding. That grain is no longer entering the trade channels. No revenue. No customs tax. No export volume to London."
> "And worse," added Harwood, "they're not afraid of the Crown anymore. They're afraid of famine—but not us."
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📉 British Reports on Grain Disruption (Internal Memo)
Patna, Gaya, Muzaffarpur: Merchant resistance to grain purchase
Zamindars: Refusing to lease large-scale harvest rights
Temples: Converting donation funds into food storage
Public: Reducing consumption, preparing for drought
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Cartwright walked to the window, where clouds still refused to form. The hot wind pushed the curtains like a warning.
> "If they stop selling willingly," he said slowly, "then we shall take it unwillingly."
And that's precisely what began.
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📍 Across Northern Bihar – 27 June 1873
In small villages near Buxar, British soldiers entered with grain requisition orders—forcing open granaries meant for community kitchens.
In Begusarai, an official sealed a temple store claiming "illegal hoarding of taxable food."
In Darbhanga, a British-appointed magistrate authorized the military seizure of stored rice, citing "state emergency preparedness"—a lie, but effective.
People watched, silently. Helplessly.
Their worst fear wasn't just the famine—it was this: that the British would cause the famine to become death.
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🎞️ Flashback: A Voice from History
One old man sitting near the banyan tree in Gaya, watching the bullock carts of confiscated grain, muttered to his grandson:
> "They did this in America too. The British and their cousins… they slaughtered the buffalo. Not just the people. The very animals the Red Indian lived with—killed so they would starve."
> "They don't need to shoot us," he whispered, "they just need to starve us."
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Back in Patna Residency
Harwood lit his pipe.
> "Should we write to Calcutta about this resistance?"
Cartwright shook his head.
> "No need. By the time they respond, the monsoon will have passed. Let the locals panic. Hunger will silence them in the end."
His eyes narrowed, lips curling in colonial disdain.
> "Let them remember who controls their skies... and their stomachs."
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But unknown to them, far across the map, the resistance was already spreading like dry grassfire—with temples, merchants, peasants, and reformers all waiting, watching... and quietly preparing.
...
28 June 1873
: Near Gaya, Bihar
The afternoon heat pressed like iron on the land. In a small mud-walled house, Ram sat cross-legged on a straw mat, the door half open. A messenger, dusty and breathless, entered with fury in his eyes.
> "Ramji, they came to the temple in Samastipur. Broke the lock. Took sacks of grain stored by the villagers. Even slapped the pujari when he protested."
Ram's face darkened, his jaw clenched. Another messenger arrived from Nawada: more seizures, more threats, more grain carts taken by British soldiers.
He stood up slowly, as if carrying the weight of every hungry child he had imagined.
> "Enough," Ram said, voice calm but fierce. "This is not drought relief... this is theft. This is war waged with empty plates."
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📜 Ram's Order to His Network
That evening, under the neem tree behind his quarters, Ram gathered his closest lieutenants—writers, merchants, temple messengers, and reform-minded school teachers.
> "We will spread the truth like fire spreads in dry thatch," he declared. "Let them know what Cartwright has done. Let them see the British face behind their empty kitchens."
He assigned his team three urgent tasks:
1. Write articles exposing the seizure of temple grain—send them to Bihar Bandhu, Kohinoor, and Avadh Akhbar.
2. Send runners to every village with spoken messages, leaflets, and letters.
3. Contact poets and folk singers to weave these stories into songs that even illiterate farmers could hear and remember.
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📰 Headline Appears in "Bihar Bandhu" – 30 June 1873
> "Temple Grain Seized by Foreign Hands – Famine Comes Faster Than Rain"
By our correspondent from Gaya
British soldiers have entered temples and community storehouses, confiscating grain prepared by villagers fearing famine. In Samastipur, Nawada, and beyond, cries of protest were silenced with rifle butts.
The food that was meant to save thousands has been taken—by those who claim to rule for our welfare.
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🌾 Across Bihar and Bengal
The words spread faster than carts could carry them. From Chhapra to Bhagalpur, from Purnea to Bardhaman, angry whispers turned into fire in the hearts of the people.
A young boy in Madhubani heard his grandfather whisper:
> "The Company doesn't want us to survive. This is just like 1770… when they watched us die."
In the markets of Bengal, an old Vaishnava sadhu shouted:
> "They fear hunger—but hunger is not what kills. Silence is."
🎭 In Patna's Evening Sabha
A Brahmo poet stood in a public square and recited lines that silenced the murmuring crowd:
> "When temples weep and granaries bleed,
Know the tyrant fears what the people feed.
Their rifles steal what the sky might send—
But truth, once spoken, shall not bend."
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The sun had barely risen when the streets of Gaya began to murmur with unrest.
Ram stood on the raised plinth outside a dharamshala near the Vishnupad Mandir. His white kurta was stained with red dust, and his chappals bore the imprint of miles walked across the parched land. His face was drawn—not with fatigue, but with something deeper: anger. The kind of anger that comes when you see sacred grain, meant for the hungry, looted under the name of Empire.
He turned to his team—six young men, some dressed as mendicants, others as traders and letter-writers. They had just returned from villages around Nawada, Gaya, and Jehanabad.
> "They did it again," said Hariprasad, his voice trembling. "In Samastipur, the British broke the lock of the mandir storehouse. Took everything. Said it was for 'emergency collection.' Even beat the pujari when he begged them not to touch grain meant for the poor."
Ram didn't speak. He walked inside, where a desk had been set up for correspondence. The paper was thick, handmade, and the inkpot glimmered dark blue in the sunlight. He sat down and took a long breath.
Then he began to write.
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✉️ Letter from Ram to Ramrajan
To: Shri Ramrajan, Head of Singham & Sons, Kolar
Sent on: 1 July 1873, via express courier
> "Respected Babuji,
Bihar is in pain. But it is also awakening.
The warnings of drought have reached every ear. The skies remain dry, and every pond is shrinking by the day. Wells are being dug deeper. Meals halved. Children cry at night not just from hunger, but from fear.
In every village, temples have begun storing grain bought from donations. Merchants, for once, have paused their exports. But the British… they have responded not with compassion, but cruelty.
Two days ago, soldiers entered Shri Ram Mandir in Samastipur. They seized grain, beat the priest, and called it "a royal requisition."
In Nawada, they confiscated carts meant for distribution to local workers. In Gaya, a granary funded by villagers was emptied under the threat of rifles.
I know their playbook, Babuji. They will wait until hunger spreads, then sell back our own grain at profit—if not export it to England, as they did in Bengal in '43.
I have dispatched men to Bihar Bandhu, Avadh Akhbar, and Indian Mirror. Some editors weep as they write—others do it with clenched fists.
I enclose two clippings. One reads:
❝British Seize Temple Grain – Monsoon Still Silent❞
Another:
❝Faith Feeds the Poor, Empire Feeds on It❞
I now ask: shall we allow another Bengal? Or can we act while there's still time?
Your humble sevak,
Ram (Gaya)"
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📦 Courier Dispatch
The letter, along with two folded newsprint pages, was bound with red thread and sealed with a wax impression of a tulsi leaf. The courier—a young man on a sturdy brown mare—rode south through the Gaya road that led to Nagpur and eventually down to Mysore. He had orders to carry nothing else and to stop for no one.
...
🕯️ Evening, 3 July 1873 – Kolar, Mysore
In the lamplit office of the Kolar estate, Ramrajan sat at his teakwood desk, flanked by oil lamps. Surya and Shyam stood nearby.
He opened the letter slowly, carefully flattening the page with his palm. His eyes did not blink as they scanned the ink.
When he finished reading, he looked up at Surya.
> "This isn't just about Bihar anymore," he said.
"This is about how power answers hunger. This is about whether we let history repeat itself... or stop it with our hands."
Surya stepped forward, voice steady:
> "Then let's use our hands, Pitaji. Grain, money, voice, words—whatever we have."
Ramrajan nodded.
> "Yes. The British have rifles. But we have the people."
He turned to Shyam.
> "Prepare to send grain—not just for charity, but as defiance."
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