Chapter 6: Seeds Beneath the Soil
The palace had grown quieter in recent weeks.
Not the silence of abandonment, but the stillness of thought.
The Maharaja often found himself standing near the long windows of his private study, looking beyond the palace walls toward the fields that stretched endlessly into the horizon. From above, the land looked fertile, almost generous. But he knew better. He had ruled long enough to understand that appearances lied. The same soil that bloomed abundantly one year could betray its people the next.
Famine did not announce itself loudly.
It arrived slowly—through thinner harvests, rising prices, hollowed faces.
And lately, that thought had begun to trouble him.
He had seen records. Old ledgers, revenue documents, grain collection reports from nearby regions. Patterns emerged when one looked long enough. Too many fluctuations. Too much dependence on rain, on chance, on mercy. A kingdom could not survive on mercy alone.
The idea had not yet taken shape in his mind.
It was more of a feeling—an unease. A sense that something fundamental had to change, not in governance or taxation, but in the very way the land was fed.
That morning, the sound of boots in the outer courtyard pulled him from his thoughts.
The British officials had arrived.
Their visits were routine now. Taxes, audits, assessments—formalities wrapped in politeness. The process unfolded as it always did. Ledgers were reviewed, figures confirmed, seals stamped. The Maharaja observed quietly, his expression neutral, his posture relaxed.
Once the work was done, as custom demanded, he invited them to dine before their departure.
The dining hall was vast, illuminated by warm chandeliers that softened the otherwise stern atmosphere. Silverware gleamed against white linen. Servants moved silently, trained to vanish into the background.
As food was served, conversation remained light at first. Weather. Transport delays. News from Calcutta. One officer spoke of unrest in Europe, another of shipping shortages. Nothing unusual.
The Maharaja listened more than he spoke.
Between courses, he noticed the smallest things—the way one officer paused too long before drinking his wine, the way another glanced instinctively toward his superior before speaking. Power had taught him to read such details.
It was during the main course that he finally spoke.
Not abruptly.
Not dramatically.
Almost casually.
"Tell me," he said, setting his cutlery down, "what is your view on agricultural production in this region?"
The table stilled, just slightly.
One officer cleared his throat. "It is… adequate, Your Highness. Given the circumstances."
"Circumstances," the Maharaja repeated softly. "Rain, mostly."
"Yes," the man nodded. "Rain decides much."
The Maharaja leaned back. "And when rain fails?"
No one answered immediately.
He continued, his tone thoughtful rather than challenging. "Grain prices rise. Transport costs increase. People suffer. And eventually, so does revenue."
The officers exchanged brief glances. This was no longer idle talk.
"I have been considering," the Maharaja went on, "whether the land itself could be strengthened—so that it yields more, even when conditions are less… kind."
A pause followed.
One officer frowned slightly. Another raised an eyebrow.
"You speak of irrigation?" someone asked.
"Partly," the Maharaja said. "But not only that."
The word fertilizer was not spoken yet, but it hovered in the air.
Slowly, he elaborated—not as a proposal, but as a line of reasoning. More yield from the same land. Stability in production. Predictability. Profit that did not collapse with a weak monsoon.
Reactions varied.
One officer looked intrigued. Another appeared skeptical. A third remained expressionless, carefully masking his thoughts. They asked measured questions—about feasibility, about costs, about distribution.
The Maharaja answered calmly.
He did not promise miracles.
He did not exaggerate returns.
He spoke as a ruler thinking long-term, not as a man chasing immediate gain.
At one point, the senior British officer leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping slowly against the table.
"You are suggesting," he said at last, "industrial involvement."
"I am suggesting preparation," the Maharaja replied.
The silence that followed was heavy, but not hostile.
Eventually, the officer nodded once. "It is… an interesting thought."
That was all.
No enthusiasm.
No rejection.
The dinner ended soon after. Courtesies were exchanged. The officials departed as they always did—politely, formally, leaving behind nothing but the echo of their footsteps.
The Maharaja remained seated long after the hall emptied.
He did not smile.
He did not sigh.
He simply stared at the table, aware that a seed had been planted—whether it would grow or not was yet to be seen.
That night, in the British quarters, the atmosphere was different.
The senior officer removed his coat and loosened his collar, exhaustion finally showing on his face. A junior officer followed him inside, curiosity barely concealed.
"Sir," the junior said cautiously, "may I ask something?"
The senior officer nodded.
"Why did we not discourage the Maharaja?" the junior asked. "A factory like that—fertilizer, production—doesn't that change the balance?"
The older man walked to the window and stared into the darkness.
"Yes," he said quietly. "It does."
He turned back slowly.
"And that is precisely why we allow it."
The junior frowned. "I don't understand."
"Our motherland needs grain," the officer said. "Desperately. Europe is restless. Supplies are uncertain. If production here increases—even by a fraction—it eases pressure elsewhere."
He paused, lighting a cigar, the flame briefly illuminating his tired eyes.
"If fertilizer spreads across India," he continued, "fields will yield more. Grain will flow. And we will be the first to claim it."
The junior officer hesitated. "And India?"
The senior officer exhaled smoke slowly.
"India will grow more food," he said. "That much is true."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, quietly, almost to himself, the senior officer added, "Let us hope it is enough to keep the world from tearing itself apart."
The room fell silent.
Outside, unseen and unnoticed, the future continued to take root—deep beneath the soil.