Chapter 5 – A Mind Beyond Time
Year: 1871
Surya was now just past his first birthday, but already he moved, spoke, and observed like a child twice his age. In the quiet moments of dawn, he would sit alone on the terrace of the haveli, facing the east, wrapped in a soft shawl, his legs crossed, spine upright.
The early sunlight touched his skin like an old friend. His eyes, still wide with childhood, hid the intensity of a returned soul—one that had walked through centuries of memory.
> "It is 1871."
"India is still in chains, but the people do not yet see the shackles."
He remembered things no one around him could imagine.
How India had once held nearly 25% of the world's wealth, and how the British, within just over a century, had drained it to barely 3% by the time he was last alive in 2025.
He remembered the policies. The lies dressed as law.
Indian farmers forced into indigo and opium.
Indian artisans crushed under British import laws.
Raw materials extracted, taken to Britain, turned into goods, and sold back to India at inflated prices.
And now, here he was—reborn in Kolar, a land known for hidden gold, a place still untouched by large-scale colonial mining.
> "They do not yet control this soil," he thought.
"But in a few years—by 1875—they will come with machines and maps."
The British did not yet have the license to mine here.
But their agents had already begun surveying, talking to local kings, and whispering of railways and roads.
Surya had heard one merchant mention it to his grandfather at the Diwali feast:
> "Sahib log want access. They say it's for development. But they're looking for gold, Ramarajan ji."
And that was enough.
Surya's mind burned with purpose.
> "This time… I will not remain silent."
"I will prepare. I will learn. And I will act."
His thoughts drifted to the hard numbers:
British exports to India in 1870: ₹60 million.
Indian goods returned in exchange: far less, and most value never came to the people.
> "This is theft, not trade," he whispered in his heart.
"A country bled dry while it still bows its head."
He thought of the Bhagavad Gita, of Lord Krishna speaking of karma, dharma, and duty.
> "If I have been sent again, then it is not just for myself."
"It is for Bharat."
That morning, Parvati found him sitting still under the mango tree, eyes half-closed in meditation.
"Surya?" she asked softly, lifting him into her arms.
He rested his head on her shoulder and remained quiet.
But inside his chest, beneath the stillness, a quiet vow had already been made:
> "India shall not wait until 1947. This time, the awakening must come sooner."
---
The evening breeze drifted through the open-air verandah. A faint scent of sandalwood lingered as Parvati finished her prayers inside. The sky was painted in soft orange, and the cows had returned from the fields.
Surya sat beside his father Ramarajan, who was sorting a bundle of letters and merchant notes. His father's hands were calloused from years of writing on palm-leaf scrolls and weighing cloth in the family godown.
Surya watched silently for a while, his little fingers tracing patterns on the floor.
Then, in his clear young voice, he asked:
> "Appa… why do the sahibs take our cotton and spices to their land… and then sell the same things back to us?"
Ramarajan looked up, slightly surprised.
He smiled at first. "That's how trade works, kanna."
But Surya didn't smile back. His brow furrowed—gently, thoughtfully.
> "But… why don't we make those things here? Why do we wait for them to return it?"
Ramarajan paused.
He placed the scroll aside and said with a patient tone,
> "Because they have machines, Surya. Big ones. Iron wheels, belts, steam. They can make cloth faster than any weaver. They can make sugar, tools, even ink… much cheaper."
> "And we?" Surya asked.
His father gave a quiet sigh. "We do not have those machines. No one else in the world has them like the British. Even the Mysore King buys some from them now."
There was silence for a few seconds.
Then Surya tilted his head and asked—not arrogantly, but with honest curiosity:
> "But… can't we make them?"
Ramarajan looked at his son with a strange expression. One of admiration, worry, and awe.
> "I don't know, kanna," he replied slowly.
"I have never seen one with my eyes. Only heard of them. They say it takes iron, gears, oil, and strange foreign fuel."
"They are built in places we cannot reach."
Surya said nothing. But in his heart, a spark had been lit.
> "If it can be built once, it can be built again."
"If they learned to do it, so can we."
He thought of steam. Of pressure. Of the way pistons moved. He had seen them—in diagrams and in books from his previous life.
> "I remember the heat of metal… the hum of a generator… the wheels of the early looms…"
He looked up at his father again and said simply:
> "Then I will make one."
Ramarajan laughed gently, brushing his son's hair.
> "First, you learn to eat with both hands, little master. Then build your empire."
They both smiled.
But in Surya's heart, it was no joke.
His words were a promise.
> "You used machines to break us…"
"Now I will use machines to lift us again."
...
That night, the air over Kolar was still.
The only sound in the haveli was the occasional rustle of neem leaves and the soft clink of a temple bell far off in the distance.
But Ramarajan could not sleep.
He lay on his cotton mattress, eyes fixed to the wooden ceiling above, arms crossed behind his head.
Surya's voice echoed in his ears:
> "Can't we make them?"
It was such a simple question. But it had cracked something inside him.
> "We never even tried," he thought.
"We accepted that we cannot. That only the British can."
"What if that is the real defeat?"
He had grown up hearing stories about machines—how they weaved cloth without hands, ran for hours without rest, and printed books faster than scribes.
But he had never seen one.
> "How do they work?" he wondered. "Where are they made? Can no one copy them?"
He sat up suddenly.
The oil lamp near the window flickered. The shadows in the room swayed slightly, like agreeing with his thoughts.
That moment, he made a decision.
> "If my son dares to dream, I must dare to begin."
---
The Next Morning – First Light
The courtyard was still bathed in a pinkish hue when Ramarajan called for Shyam, his trusted steward—a sharp, loyal man who had worked in the household for years.
Shyam arrived quickly, rubbing his eyes. "Hukum?" he said, bowing lightly.
Ramarajan's voice was firm. Calm. Direct.
> "Shyam… I need information."
"About the machines used in the textile mills of the British. Weaving. Spinning. Dyeing. Printing."
"Where are they built? How are they brought here? Can anyone make them?"
Shyam blinked in surprise.
> "Sir, I... I've only heard of them. Bombay, Calcutta, Madras ports—maybe…"
"But to make them? That would take—"
Ramarajan cut him off, but not harshly.
> "I don't care what it takes. Find someone who knows. Find ten if you must."
"I want drawings. Names. Blacksmiths. Inventors. Even British mechanics, if they exist nearby."
"I want knowledge, not delay."
Shyam stood straighter now, sensing the urgency.
> "As you wish, Ramaraj."
Ramarajan nodded, then added:
> "Tell them: money is not the problem. Speed is."
> "Understood, sir."
As Shyam turned to leave, Ramarajan looked up toward the steps of the verandah, where a small figure was playing with chalk near a potted tulsi plant.
Surya.
Just a child. Barely speaking in full sentences.
But his words had already started changing the wind.
Ramarajan smiled softly to himself.
> "A new India will not come from rebellion alone," he whispered.
"It must also come from creation."
"And perhaps… it begins here."
The summer air was thick with red dust and heat, but inside the stone walls of the haveli, something new stirred—a quiet urgency that had not been there a week ago.
Ramarajan stood near the window of his study, while Shyam, covered in the grime of travel, unwrapped a bundle of papers and diagrams, spreading them across the polished wooden desk.
> "Sir, as you asked… I gathered all I could."
Ramarajan studied the pages carefully—sketches of spinning frames, flywheels, pressure boilers, and printing rollers. The lines were rough, but meaningful.
Shyam explained:
> "The machines are mostly from Britain, yes, but also from France, Germany, even Belgium and Italy. Some use steam, some run on water wheels. The technology is spreading across Europe faster than we imagine."
He paused, then added:
> "I've spoken to traders from Madras, Hyderabad, and Goa. Some of them have contacts who've been to European docks, even visited small workshops in Calcutta where damaged parts arrive. Some Indian labourers claim to have assembled small looms or boiler plates with their own hands."
Ramarajan nodded but remained silent.
Shyam lowered his voice.
> "And sir… there is another way."
Ramarajan looked up. "Speak."
> "We shouldn't send just one boy."
"We should send a group—young, loyal, sharp-minded boys. Each trained in different skills. Each willing to observe, learn, and bring back knowledge."
He stepped closer to the desk, pointing at names he had scribbled on the side of the map.
> "Send them quietly to Britain, France, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Hungary, Spain—even Australia. Wherever machines are made… we must send eyes."
Ramarajan raised an eyebrow. "And will they be allowed?"
Shyam nodded slowly.
> "Yes, sir—if we send them as humble workers or merchant apprentices. Europe respects quiet observers more than noisy challengers. And if they carry coin and curiosity, they'll find teachers."
He continued:
> "And don't stop there. We must send men out from here—across India and beyond—to find mechanics, engineers, professors, smiths, apprentices—anyone who understands machines, whether for cloth, paper, iron, or medicine."
> "Some of them are desperate. Some are in debt. Some are hungry. Many will trade knowledge for survival."
The room was silent.
Ramarajan looked down at the youngest drawing—a child's sketch of a gear and lever, made clumsily but with heart.
It was Surya's.
> "We must act before the British know what we're planning," he said quietly.
"We'll build a new school behind the godown. Call it a metalwork shed."
"But inside, we will prepare a new India."
He turned to Shyam, his voice low but full of conviction:
> "Send them. Train them. Fund them. But most of all—protect them."
"We are no longer just traders or landowners, Shyam. We are now the seed of something that must not fail."
.