Behemoth
**Location: Mandi, Himachal Pradesh**
**Jatin's Ancestral House and Beyond**
**Date: December 1940**
The air thrummed with the triumphant gurgle of water spilling from the filtration system, a crystalline stream cascading into the lake's once-murky depths. Jatin stood on the shore, mud clinging to his sandals, as the villagers erupted around him—shouts of joy, gasps of disbelief, the clap of hands against clay pots filled with the first clean water in generations. The December sun glinted off the surface, turning the lake into a mirror of hope, its ripples catching the light like a promise fulfilled. Two months of relentless labor—gravel hauled, sand sifted, pipes wrestled into place—had borne fruit, and Jatin's chest swelled with a quiet, fierce satisfaction.
Ramesh, the gruff farmer, splashed through the shallows, his turban askew, a rare grin splitting his weathered face. "Sharma-ji, taste this!" he bellowed, thrusting a dripping pot at Jatin. "Like snowmelt from the peaks!" Jatin took a sip, the cool clarity washing over his tongue, and nodded. "Better than Shimla's springs," he said, handing it back as Ramesh's wife, Meena, joined them, her eyes glistening. "My kids won't sicken from this," she whispered, clutching his arm. "Bless you, beta."
Kamla, ever the skeptic, dipped her fingers into the flow, squinting as if expecting trickery. "No stink," she muttered, then louder, "No stink! You've turned rot into gold, boy!" The crowd laughed, and Arjun darted forward, splashing water on his face with a whoop. "Told you he's a genius, Dadi!" he crowed, shaking wet hair like a puppy.
Lila approached, her toddler waddling behind, a clay cup in her small hands. "We cooked with it this morning," she said, her voice soft but firm. "No grit, no sourness. My girl drank it straight—look at her smile." The child beamed up at Jatin, and he crouched, ruffling her hair. "Keep smiling, little one. This is yours now."
The celebration stretched into the evening, the shore alive with chatter and shared cups. Yet beneath Jatin's smile, his mind churned. This wasn't just a lake reborn—it was a crack in the wall of despair that had hemmed these people in for decades. They'd accepted the filth, the fevers, as fate; now they stood taller, eyes brighter, voices bolder. He'd given them more than water—he'd given them proof they could fight back. But this was one victory, one piece of a vast, jagged puzzle. December 1940 loomed in his thoughts, seven years from independence—a blink and an eternity, shadowed by doubts about what that freedom would mean.
He slipped away as dusk fell, the villagers' laughter fading behind him, and returned to the study. The kerosene lamp flickered to life, casting its glow over his notes—maps, budgets, dreams scrawled in ink. The British Raj's grip tightened in his mind, their legacy a web of corruption and division. He'd seen it in Hargreaves' smirk, the 20,000-rupee bribe a bitter taste of their greed. Independence wouldn't erase that overnight—not if the same lackeys, fattened on colonial scraps, took the reins. "They'll swap flags and keep the chains," he muttered, his fist clenching. "I won't let it happen."
His India wasn't their game of thrones—it was fields green with innovation, homes lit by honest work, children free to learn and thrive. The lake was his first strike; now he'd build an arsenal of progress, arm the people with tools and will. He leaned back, the chair creaking, and let the vision take root.
---
**January 1941**
The new year dawned crisp and cold, frost glinting on the rooftops as Jatin threw himself into motion. *Sharma Energy Pvt. Ltd.* was no longer a whisper—it was a roar, biogas units sprouting across Mandi's villages like stubborn weeds in cracked earth. Four months later, by April, their hum was a familiar song in Karsog, Sundernagar, and a dozen hamlets beyond. Jatin stood in Karsog's dusty square, watching Dev hammer a pipe into place, the clang ringing out over curious onlookers.
A wiry man, Prem, approached, his arms crossed. "Another of your dung machines, eh? My wife's tired of smoke—says it's witchcraft if it works." Jatin grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "No magic, Uncle—just science. Free for a month; try it. She'll thank me." Prem grunted, but his eyes lingered on the unit, softening as Lila handed him a lit lantern, its flame steady and clean.
Back in Mandi, Meena cornered Jatin by the well, her hands floured from chapati dough. "My brother in Sundernagar—he's got one now. Says it's like Diwali every night. You hiring more hands?" Jatin nodded. "Tell him to see Dev—five rupees a week to start." Her face lit up, and she darted off, calling her son to spread the word.
The change rippled outward. Men like Vikram, once idle, now hauled pipes and shoveled dung, their pockets jingling with wages. Women sighed in relief as biogas stoves banished smoke, their coughs fading, their children's eyes clearer. The air itself shifted—less soot, more promise. Jatin watched it unfold, but he knew he couldn't do it alone.
In February, he'd sat with two local merchants—Sethi, a portly grain trader with a sharp mind, and Gupta, a wiry cloth seller with a knack for numbers—over chai in his courtyard. "I need partners," Jatin said, sliding sketches across the table. "Twenty percent of both companies—*Sharma Energy* and *Varsha*—for your cash and connections. I keep eighty. You've seen the lake, the units. This works."
Sethi sipped his chai, frowning. "Eighty's steep, lad. Why not fifty-fifty?" Jatin leaned forward, voice firm. "Because I'm the one bleeding for this—every plan, every fight with the Raj. You'll profit plenty—trust me." Gupta chuckled, tapping the sketch. "He's got us there, Sethi. I've sold more cloth since the lights came—no one's squinting in the dark. I'm in." Sethi relented with a sigh, and the deal was struck—20,000 rupees pooled, Jatin's grip on his vision ironclad.
---
**March 1941**
Water became his next front. The lake's purity was a goldmine, and Jatin tapped it with *Varsha Pvt. Ltd.* Carts rolled into Mandi's market, barrels sloshing with clean water, a lifeline in a region choked by pollution. He stood beside one, haggling with a shopkeeper, Mohan, who squinted at the price. "Two annas a barrel? Kerosene's cheaper!" Jatin shook his head. "Kerosene won't quench your kids, Mohan-ji. This is life—taste it." Mohan relented after a sip, and soon barrels vanished into homes and stalls, coins clinking into Jatin's hands.
Kamla caught him later, a rare smile creasing her face. "Bought some for my tea—no grit in my cup now. You're a menace, boy, but a good one." Jatin laughed, bowing. "High praise, Aunty. Spread the word."
The rupees flowed—enough to fund more units, hire more hands. But Jatin's eyes were on the horizon, where the Raj's shadow loomed.
---
**May 1941**
India stirred, a restless beast shaking off sleep. Protests flared in Delhi, Lahore—cries for freedom echoing through the hills. Jatin felt it in Mandi's market, the mutters growing bolder, the glances sharper. One evening, Ramesh pulled him aside, voice low. "Heard the Congress boys talking—say the British are slipping. You think it's time, Sharma-ji?" Jatin hesitated, then shook his head. "Not yet. They're weak, but not broken. We need strength first—ours, not theirs."
That night, under the lamp's flicker, he founded *Bhartiya Vikas Morcha*—BVM, the Indian Progress Front. He scribbled its charter: self-reliance, innovation, dignity for all. The next day, he stood on a crate in Mandi's square, the crowd swelling—farmers, weavers, women with baskets, children perched on shoulders.
"Friends," he called, his voice cutting through the din, "we've cleaned our lake, lit our homes. This is our power—not theirs. Join me, and we'll build an India where no one bows, where every village shines. Together, we'll make it great again!" The roar shook the ground, hands raised, eyes alight. Prem pushed forward, shouting, "I'm with you, Sharma-ji!" Meena nodded fiercely, her son tugging her sari. "Us too!"
BVM mushroomed overnight—hundreds, then thousands, rallying to Jatin's banner. He kept his words careful, sidestepping barbs at the Raj, painting a future instead. At a tea stall, Gupta smirked over his cup. "Clever, lad—no rebellion talk, just dreams. They'll never see you coming." Jatin winked. "Let them sleep—I'll wake India myself."
The British scoffed from their brick offices. Hargreaves, sipping gin, sneered to a clerk, "Another native with big talk. Great India? Pah—let him play his games." Their blindness was Jatin's shield, a cloak for his quiet revolution.
---
**December 1941**
A year unfurled, and Himachal Pradesh bore Jatin's mark. Biogas units dotted the valleys, lakes sparkled anew, cow farms hummed with life—dung for energy, milk for trade. In Kullu, he met a shepherd, Hari, who'd joined BVM. "Your units warm my hut," Hari said, shearing a goat. "Never thought I'd live better than my father." Jatin gripped his shoulder. "You will—and your kids, too."
In Chamba, a widow, Radha, sold water from a cleaned stream, her stall bustling. "Lost my man to fever," she told Jatin, counting coins. "Your water's my second chance." He pressed a rupee back into her hand. "Keep it—build something bigger."
The terrain fought him—roads washed out, villages clung to cliffs—but Jatin adapted. In Bilaspur, he sat with a headman, Tashi, over yak butter tea. "Your people are scattered," Jatin said, sketching a smaller unit. "We'll tailor it—less dung, same light." Tashi nodded, impressed. "You listen, Sharma-ji. That's rare."
His secret wasn't just machines—it was people. He lingered in mud huts, shared rotis, heard their fears. In Sundernagar, a girl, Priya, tugged his sleeve. "Will you make a school, sir? I want to read like you." Jatin knelt, smiling. "Soon, little one. You'll write your own story."
By year's end, Himachal pulsed with change—clean air, clear water, hope in every breath. Jatin stood on a ridge, the Beas River glinting below, and saw not just a state, but a nation stirring. BVM swelled, his companies thrived, and the Raj's grip frayed. He'd ignited a spark, and it burned brighter every day—a fire no colonial shadow could quench.