NOVPUB
Chapter 93 - Ch.90: When the Soil Sang Again
________________________________________________________________________________
- Samrat Bhavan, Delhi, Bharat -
- May 30, 1937 -
Weeks had passed since that clash of fates. And Aryan, now returned from Greenland and the quiet halls of Kamar-Taj, found himself once more among maps, reports, and the steady rhythm of nation-building.
And yet, for Aryan, it felt like a breath.
The grand halls of Samrat Bhavan were alive with activity. Couriers moved swiftly, ministers debated with focus, and aides reviewed reports with sharp eyes. Change was no longer a concept in Bharat—it was reality, unfolding brick by brick, field by field.
Aryan stood by the window of his chamber, watching the horizon of Delhi shift under a growing sun. The capital, though no longer the seat of administrative power, still beat with the heart of Bharat's past—and its pulse quickened with every reform.
Behind him, stacks of reports sat on a large table, their contents detailed and thorough. A map of Bharat, colored in soft tones, showed markers across its thirty states and seven union territories. Nearly eighty percent of land redistribution had been completed. The Zamindari system, once a deep-rooted injustice, was now all but abolished. Land once hoarded by a few was now in the hands of those who had toiled it for generations.
This wasn't just paperwork. It was revolution, bloodless and dignified.
The Lok Seva Ayog, his creation—an institution born out of need and shaped with vision—had proven its worth. With trained officers, cross-checked intelligence reports, digital records (using proto-magitech devices Aryan's labs had pioneered), and strong anti-corruption protocols, the bureaucratic gridlock that had once choked Bharat was now a memory.
But Aryan knew better than to rest.
The soil was theirs again. Now, it had to bloom.
He turned as the door opened. Minister Rajnath Mishra, a soft-spoken man in his fifties with silver-streaked hair and an honest gaze, entered with a respectful bow. He wore a simple white kurta, yet his voice held the weight of fields and futures.
"You summoned me, Samrat?"
Aryan nodded, motioning to the seat across the table. "Yes, Rajnathji. Please, sit. We have something important to discuss."
The minister obliged, opening a leather folder. "The pilot tests are complete. Results confirmed across all selected regions—Punjab, Vidarbha, Kalinga, and parts of Awadh. Harvest increased nearly twofold, in some areas even more. And no reports of soil degradation or ecological imbalance."
Aryan allowed himself a small smile. "That's what I hoped. The Prāṇa-fertilizers, as the scientists have begun to call them, held up well?"
"Yes," Rajnath said, clearly pleased. "They work faster, integrate better with the soil, and don't require large quantities. The eco-pesticides too—they repel pests without harming the plants or the handlers. Farmers were skeptical at first, but now... they're asking when they can get more."
Aryan leaned forward, hands clasped. "Then we give it to them. All of them."
Rajnath's eyes widened slightly. "Nationwide rollout?"
"Yes," Aryan said firmly. "We've already broken the chains that held our farmers back. Now we must give them wings. This—" he gestured to the reports, "—is our Green Revolution. And it must begin now. Bharat must feed itself—and the world."
There was a brief pause. The weight of those words hung in the air.
Rajnath spoke quietly, "We'll need new distribution protocols. Education for the farmers. Field officers trained in how to explain the changes without overwhelming them. And more of the compounds... can your labs provide that scale?"
Aryan nodded. "The Alchemical Plant in Ujjain is ready. I've personally overseen the expansion. They've begun mass production. Our researchers have also developed scrolls—simple, illustrated guides in local languages. We'll send those along with trained facilitators."
Rajnath's lips curved into a slow smile. "It's happening, then. Not just independence—but prosperity."
Aryan stood and looked out the window once more, his voice softer now. "We promised our people more than freedom. We promised them a future where their children wouldn't go hungry, where the land would sing again. Let's make that real."
Rajnath stood too, offering a respectful bow, not out of protocol—but out of quiet admiration. "It will be done, Samrat."
As the minister left, Aryan remained at the window.
Below, the gardens of Samrat Bhavan were in bloom—rows of flowers, medicinal herbs, and experimental crops swayed in the breeze. What began as an idea, a dream in the mind of a boy once orphaned by empire, had grown roots.
Now, it was bearing fruit.
__________
- Rural parts of Nagpur, Maharashtra, Bharat-
- July 31, 1937 -
The monsoon clouds had passed, leaving the skies clear and the air rich with the scent of damp earth. Along a dusty road lined with neem trees, laughter echoed from a small mud-brick house whose walls had recently been painted a pale blue—a sign of modest pride, of something new taking root.
Inside, the Patel family sat around a warm meal, steam rising from rotis that no longer had to be rationed. Dal, sabzi, even a small bowl of curd. A meal so ordinary, and yet—extraordinary.
For generations, their family had lived on this land. Their grandfather's grandfather once tilled it with his bare hands and built a small home under the same neem tree that still stood today. But that was long before greed stole it from them—before a zamindar, with his heavy boots and heavier claims, had seized what wasn't his, pushing the Patels into the cruel cycle of landless labor.
The m"n of the house, Hariram, had been born into that life. He never knew the feeling of owning land—only of serving those who did. As a child, he had watched his father return home every evening with cracked hands and dust-covered feet, clutching a handful of grain like it was gold.
But all that changed a few months ago.
It had started with a rumor—an official from the Lok Seva Kendra was coming to their village. A new policy. Land reform. A possibility. They had nothing to lose, so they filed a request, no louder than a whisper of hope. The officers listened—not with apathy, but with purpose.
Within a fortnight, the zamindar who had occupied their ancestral land was arrested for illegal possession. The government investigators confirmed the family's claim. For the first time in decades, the Patels had their land returned—legally, fully, rightfully.
Tears had flowed that day, but not of sorrow. Hariram had stood in the middle of his old-new field and dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the soil. His wife, Gulabi, had cried silently while holding their little girl close.
But their joy was quickly clouded by a question—what now?
They had land, yes. But no bullocks, no seeds, no tools. No savings to buy fertilizers or pesticides. Farming was not just will—it needed means. Despair had started to creep back in.
Then, the Government Outreach Conference came to their Panchayat Bhavan.
It was a tented affair, buzzing with unfamiliar words: eco-pesticides, alkaline-resistant seeds, modern tillers and harvesters, soil enhancers. Most villagers listened with glazed eyes. Many had lived too long under systems that promised much and delivered little.
But someone was listening closely.
Their daughter, Phoolmati, barely fifteen, with sharp eyes and an even sharper mind, sat in the front row, scribbling notes into a tattered notebook. She asked questions others were too afraid to ask. When the scheme's officials tested the crowd for understanding, she was the first to answer—and the first to pass.
Her success brought with it the government's full support:
– Certified high-yield crop seeds.
– Eco-friendly, odourless pesticides that didn't burn the eyes.
– Prāṇa-fertilizers that nourished the soil, not stripped it.
– Even a small mechanical tiller and harvester, shared among three families.
The villagers, cautious as ever, watched. Some mocked quietly—until the officials nodded and noted down names. Then the claps came. Polite, slow, but real.
That evening, the Patel house glowed brighter than any Diwali. Hariram lifted his daughter in the air, voice breaking. "You've done what three generations couldn't, bitiya."
Work began at dawn the next day and didn't stop for weeks.
They prepared the land with borrowed strength and borrowed machines. The government sent a young officer from the Agricultural Extension Department—friendly, patient, well-trained—who guided them step by step. The soil took to the new seeds like old friends reunited. Phoolmati measured water levels. Gulabi checked the pesticide schedules. Hariram prayed every morning and every night.
And then came the harvest.
Rows upon rows of golden grain swayed in the breeze. More than they had ever imagined. More than even the village's biggest landowners had once boasted.
Neighbors came to see. Some in disbelief. Some in envy. Most with silent awe.
The Patels were no longer laborers. They were farmers again.
That evening, as the grain sacks were piled in their small courtyard and Phoolmati played with her younger brother in the shade of the neem tree, Hariram sat back and wiped his brow. He looked at his wife, at the land, at the full plates waiting inside.
"I don't know who to thank," he whispered. "The Samrat, who gave our land back... the creator of these miracle seeds... our daughter, who carried our hopes on her shoulders... or maybe the gods above."
Gulabi smiled. "Why not all of them?"
And as the stars blinked to life above their little house, the fields behind them swayed gently, whispering promises of a better tomorrow.
________________________________________________________________________________
Thanks for reading 🙏 🙏.
If you are liking this story so far please support this novel through the power stones and let me know your thoughts in the comments and please review the book with ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ if you deem it worthwhile.
