Chapter 48: Storms Before the Harvest
August 1984 – Main Conference Hall, Singh Technologies HQ, Lucknow
The skies over Lucknow churned with thick monsoon clouds, a low rumble of thunder echoing like an ancient warning across the old city's tiled rooftops. The breeze carried a damp, earthen scent through open windows, mixing with the light aroma of cardamom tea left untouched on trays beside stacks of reports. Inside the heart of Singh Technologies, tension hung as heavy as the weather.
The main conference hall was filled with representatives from all departments—medical, agricultural, infrastructure, legal, logistics, research, and manufacturing. The polished teak table stretched from one end of the long room to the other, its lacquered surface covered in thick binders, blueprints, folded maps, and a few scattered umbrellas dripping slowly into the carpet.
Ajay Singh, dressed in a cream-colored kurta with a grey Nehru vest, sat at the head of the table. His brow was furrowed, and a thin shadow of stubble lined his jaw—he hadn't slept much. On his right sat his eight-year-old son, Bharat, seemingly out of place among the adult professionals, yet no one questioned his presence. Over the last year, even the most senior officers had come to respect the boy's startling clarity of thought. When the conversation turned truly difficult, more than a few eyes naturally drifted toward him.
The meeting began with an uncomfortable stillness.
Mr. Tyagi from the Infrastructure Department cleared his throat and stood. A stocky man in his early fifties, he looked worn from fieldwork, his fingernails still dusted with cement. "Sir, with regret, I must report another deliberate delay. Our material clearance near Raebareli was held up. The documents were complete. But the local authority refused to sign without..." he paused, searching for a polite phrase, "...without encouragement."
A quiet wave of understanding passed through the room.
"No signature, no bricks. No cement," Tyagi added. "We lost three days."
Pooja Singh, now leading the Medical R&D unit, stood next. She adjusted the glasses sliding down her nose and spoke with restrained frustration. "One of our rural clinics reported a sudden malfunction in the portable diagnostic unit. When our engineers arrived, they found the device untouched, stored in its box. The complaint was fake—manufactured to discredit us. I suspect someone local was bribed to create doubt."
Raghav Singh leaned forward. "It's no different in agriculture. Our agency is helping farmers sell crops directly. Middlemen are furious. They've begun spreading rumors—claiming we are a private monopoly. In Faizabad, our agent was harassed by a group claiming to represent 'farmer interests.' They broke one of our weighing machines."
The logistics manager, a young man with tired eyes and a fresh scar on his knuckle, added, "We've started receiving anonymous calls. Threats. Warning us to stop delivery of medical machines to certain districts. Our driver in Banda was cornered. He wasn't harmed, but they made it clear—we're not welcome."
Ajay remained silent, fingers laced under his chin. Outside, a crack of thunder rattled the window glass. Inside, not even the fan blades could soften the stifling heat of frustration.
Mr. Qureshi from Legal finally spoke, tapping a folder with his knuckles. "These threats are not random. Sir, we have multiple court filings against us—most of them baseless. One accuses us of monopolizing road construction. Another claims our medical device violates patient privacy. These are not genuine. They are diversions."
A junior officer from agriculture spoke up nervously. "Sir, in Unnao, we heard a group is trying to file a PIL against our agency model. They claim it's illegal for private firms to collect grain for state sale."
Another manager from infrastructure, Mr. Banerjee, chuckled dryly. "We're building roads where no one wanted to go before. But now the same contractors who ignored those areas want their monopoly back."
The murmuring in the hall thickened.
Ajay stood slowly. His voice cut through the storm of voices—not loud, but calm and grounded.
"We are changing things," he said. "And change, especially when fast, disturbs those who are comfortable in chaos. But that does not mean we stop."
He looked around. "We prepared for financial losses, delays, even technological hurdles. But we did not fully prepare for the full weight of corruption—this organized resistance."
Everyone was silent.
At that moment, Mr. Mehta, a veteran from procurement with salt-and-pepper hair and a sun-tanned face, spoke thoughtfully. "Sir, one approach may help—tighten our internal verification. Often our delays give enemies a chance. What if we had a two-step document review before we submitted requests to government bodies? Maybe cut the slack they exploit."
Miss Desai, the young HR manager, chimed in. "We could rotate district-level officers every three months. Constant presence creates loyalty—sometimes to the wrong people. Rotation keeps field teams alert and neutral."
Vikram, a logistics officer with a farming background, raised his hand. "Sir, we started using local drivers in western UP. When they feel invested, they help us avoid local hurdles—warn us of blockades. Maybe we expand that model."
Ajay nodded. "Good. These are practical steps. Begin pilot programs this week."
Then he looked at Bharat.
The boy, small in his white kurta, had been quiet all this time. Now he sat upright, drawing soft circles with his finger on the polished table. Then he spoke.
"There are four kinds of attacks," Bharat said, softly but clearly. "Delays. Lies. Violence. And fear."
The entire room quieted, listening.
"To survive," Bharat continued, "we must not only block—but observe, record, and respond. We must create four new arms. One for each kind."
Ajay motioned gently with his hand, "Tell us."
Bharat stood. "First, a Detective Agency Department. Not like a police unit. But one made of retired investigators, honest police officers, military analysts—those who know how to watch quietly. Their job is to gather proof—secretly, legally. Not to punish. But to prepare."
Mr. Qureshi raised his eyebrows in agreement. "That would make court cases much stronger. Judges like evidence, not accusations."
Bharat nodded. "Second, a Security Division. We've received threats. Letters. Calls. Even if 90% are fake, we must prepare for the 10%. We should hire trained ex-army men to guard our factories, research labs, and field stations. We must install cameras—not just to catch criminals, but to prevent crimes."
Ajay nodded. "We'll reach out to Arjun . His army contacts could help us recruit trustworthy men."
"Third," Bharat said, "a Legal & Anti-Corruption Division. When the detective unit gathers proof, this team should file real cases. Not always public—but firm. Show we don't retaliate with noise, but with truth."
A few officers clapped softly. The Legal Head, Mr. Qureshi, smiled faintly. "With that kind of preparation, we could finally win cases on our first hearing."
"And last," Bharat said, "a Media & Publication Department. We must tell our story. Not boast—but educate. Show how one corrupt delay can deny medicine to a sick child. Or raise the price of food. Or block a village road. Let people see the truth."
Ajay closed his folder and stood. "This will need funds. Time. Careful people."
"Yes," Bharat replied, "and we do it slowly. Start with one district. One team. One case. Let the corrupt know—we're watching. Let the people know—we're listening."
The room was silent.
Ajay placed a hand gently on his son's shoulder. "You speak like someone older than me."
Bharat smiled, "Maybe I just remember more than you, Pitaji."
There was soft laughter.
Ajay turned to his department heads. "Prepare proposals. In one week, I want a shortlist of candidates for each new team. Prefer retired officers. Quiet ones. Let us begin not with thunder—but with footsteps too soft to hear."
Outside, the rain began to pour. The storm had broken. But inside, the resolve had just begun to rise.
And in a corner of that buzzing hall, as officers began whispering to one another about new protocols, new hope, and quiet revenge against corruption—Bharat sat still. He wasn't smiling. He was calculating.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a new idea was already forming.
"Not just protect ourselves," he thought, "but change the rules of this game."