✵ I. "How Does He Know Everything?"
By the time Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy turned ten, a quiet rumour had started to drift through the lanes of Rayalaseema.
Not shouted.Not proclaimed.Just whispered near wells, under trees, in dim courtyards at night:
"Careful what you say, ra.Dora's boy hears everything."
Of course, that wasn't true.
He didn't hear everything.
He simply made sure he heard everything that mattered.
But rumours are lazy. They don't like details.
So they called him all sorts of things:
"Small merchant Dora.""Lion cub.""Child with old eyes."
And behind those names, a quieter one, spoken only when people were very sure no Company spy was nearby:
"He is building eyes. Extra eyes. Everywhere."
They were right.
He was.
❖ II. The Day a Sack Almost Ruined Everything
The turning point came on a hot afternoon that looked, at first, like any other.
The sky was a colourless white. Heat shimmered above the rock. Even the crows were too tired to complain.
In the hidden shed near the rocky edge of Uyyalawada, Narasimha was stacking sacks of grain in careful rows with Ramu.
"Not here," he said, adjusting one. "If we put too many in this corner, floor may crack."
Ramu wiped sweat from his brow.
"You are ten, kanna," he grumbled. "Why do you talk like a man who has rebuilt house three times?"
Narasimha ignored him.
He was counting.
Grain here.Oil there.Iron tools stacked higher up.
His palm-leaf map in his head updated with each movement.
Outside, the fields baked.
Inside, the hidden arteries of his tiny "shadow economy" pulsed quietly.
Then the door banged open.
Ramu spun, hand going to the nearest stick.
A boy of about twelve stood panting in the doorway, eyes wide. One of the temple helpers.
"Narasimha!" he gasped. "Company men—twenty, maybe more—coming on horses. With that local peon who hates you. They have extra carts. They say they are checking 'tax compliance' in all grain stores."
Ramu swore.
Narasimha froze.
He saw it in one instant:
If they went to the main storeroom, they'd find decent reserves. Normal.
If, by bad luck or some informant's malice, they found this hidden shed—even partially filled—
They would not call it prudence. They would call it hoarding.
They would seize everything, fine them, maybe even strip the estate's rights.
His father's name, his house's reputation, his careful plans…
All crushed by one "inspection".
His heart leapt into his throat.
His mind… did not.
It sharpened.
"How long?" he demanded.
The boy gulped.
"They were at the crossroad near the temple when I ran," he said. "Ten minutes? Less? More? I don't—"
"Fine," Narasimha cut him off. "Ramu, listen. We cannot move all. We don't need to. We just need a story."
He thought fast.
What did Company men see?What did they think in?Not mercy. Not famine. Not dharma.
Numbers.Orders.Reports.
He grabbed a sharp piece of charcoal from a corner.
"Ramu," he said quickly, "take six sacks from here. Move them to the main house store. Put them right at the front. Make it look like we just brought them from the fields for the first time. Tell Amma to say, 'We had good grain in one patch, so we brought extra today.'"
Ramu nodded, already hauling.
"And here?" he asked, glancing around.
Narasimha's eyes flicked over the room.
"We stack these sacks against that wall," he said, pointing. "Cover them with those old broken mats and junk tools. To an outside eye, it must look like we store only useless things here. Extra oil pots we can leave—Company will think we are greedy for ghee, not grain."
The temple boy stared.
"You thought of all this—"
"Now," Narasimha snapped. "Later, you can admire me. Or curse me. First we move."
They worked like ants.
By the time Ramu ran out with the last "visible" grain and the boy slipped away by the back path, Narasimha was shoving a cracked, useless pot into a strategic position over the edge of a sack.
He stepped back, breathing hard.
It looked… cluttered. Messy. Unimportant.
Good.
He wiped his hands on his dhoti and sprinted back toward the main house.
✢ III. Facing the Inspection
The Company riders arrived in a cloud of dust and entitlement.
At their head rode a British officer with sunburned skin and an eternally displeased expression. Beside him, a local peon who smiled too much when others suffered.
"Uyyalawada Dora!" the officer called, dismounting clumsily. "We have orders for surprise inspection of grain. For the Crown's safety, of course."
"Of course," Narasimha's father replied smoothly, coming out to greet them with polite distance. "We have nothing to hide. Come."
Narasimha stood a half-step behind his father, eyes lowered respectfully, mind racing.
They started with the main storeroom.
The officer walked between sacks, peering, asking questions.
"How much of this is for personal use?""How much for village relief?""Any debts in revenue?"
Narasimha's father answered calmly, his voice steady.
The peon's eyes, however, darted everywhere, sharp and hungry.
"You know," he said casually, "locals are saying you have more grain hidden somewhere. In another house."
The officer's head snapped around.
"Hidden?" he repeated. "That is a serious charge."
Narasimha's father's jaw tightened.
"If we had hidden," he said evenly, "would we allow your men to ride freely around the estate, poking their noses into every shed?"
The peon pressed.
"I just mean," he said innocently, "for safety, we should check all buildings. These people… they are clever."
The officer considered.
"Very well," he said. "We will look around."
They moved.
The kitchen.The outer sheds.The temple grain.Even the cow-shed, to everyone's annoyance.
The hidden shed lay near the edge of the village, browsed by goats, ignored by most.
The peon's eyes gleamed as they approached it.
"This one," he said, pointing. "I have never seen anyone go in. That means there is something inside."
Narasimha resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
If no one goes in, maybe there is nothing, he wanted to say. Instead, he stayed silent.
Ramu had done his job well.
The door opened with a creak.
Inside, in the dim light, the space looked… disappointing.
A few cracked pots.Some old mats.A pile of unused tools.Two oil jars with lids askew.
No neat rows of sacks.
No shining mountain of grain waiting to be seized.
The British officer sniffed.
"This?" he said. "This is what you are so excited about?"
The peon swallowed, sweating.
"I—I was told—"
"You were told nonsense," the officer snapped. "We are not here to chase village gossip. We have real work."
He turned on his heel.
"We are done," he announced, more to himself than to anyone else. "No more time to waste."
He stalked off, irritation replaced by boredom.
Narasimha's father bowed politely.
The peon lingered a moment, shooting a sharp look at Narasimha.
The boy met his gaze without flinching.
His eyes were calm.
Too calm.
The peon shivered, without knowing why.
✶ IV. A New Law in His Heart
Only that night, when the house had settled and the last lamp was dimmed, did the adrenaline fade enough for Narasimha to feel shaky.
He sat on the rooftop, hugging his knees, the air cooler now, stars pricking the sky.
His father joined him after a while.
"For someone who hates work, you had a very busy day," he said wryly, lowering himself onto the parapet.
Narasimha managed a weak smile.
"If I knew one peon's loose tongue could cause so much trouble," he muttered, "I would have fed him extra salt so he couldn't speak."
His father was quiet.
"Who warned you?" he asked. "You got to that shed and moved stock before they reached it. That was not luck."
"Temple boy," Narasimha said simply. "He was sweeping when he heard the peon talk in the courtyard of the sub-registrar's house. He ran."
His father nodded slowly.
"So today," he said, "we escaped loss because one boy happened to be in the right place and cared enough to run fast."
"Yes," Narasimha said. "I don't like those odds."
He stared at the stars, brow furrowed.
"Appa," he said quietly, "I have been thinking of grain, of coin, of cloth. Today, something became clear. We also need something else. More than salt, more than iron."
"What?" his father asked.
Narasimha's fingers tapped on the rooftop.
"Eyes," he said. "And ears. Everywhere."
His father's profile turned toward him in the starlight.
He didn't speak.
So Narasimha continued.
"Today, one boy told us. Tomorrow, he may not hear. Or he may fall sick. Or they may speak somewhere else. We need many boys. Many girls. Many men, many women. People who are already in places where Company talks freely. Wells, dharmashalas, markets, inns."
He drew little dots on the dusty roof with his finger as he spoke.
"Here, here, here… each person hears a little," he said. "If they bring those little pieces to us, we will know where danger is before it walks in."
His father watched the dots.
"And what will you call this collection of 'little pieces'?" he asked.
Narasimha shrugged.
"Right now?" he said. "I call it: 'Not dying because we were blind.'"
His father laughed softly.
"Good name," he said. "Too long for future scrolls, but good for now."
He grew serious again.
"This path is different, kanna," he warned. "Grain, cloth, iron—those are things. When you start using people as 'eyes', you must remember: they are not tools. They are lives. If you send them to listen where danger lives, you must be ready to shield them when danger bites."
Narasimha's jaw tightened.
"I know," he said. "I am not asking them to risk for free. If someone steels their courage to warn us, we will stand between them and the hand that tries to strike."
His father's gaze softened.
"You speak like Dora too often these days," he said. "I miss when your biggest crisis was dropping a laddoo."
"I still drop laddoos," Narasimha replied. "Now they just fall on more serious maps."
They sat in silence for a while.
Below, the village breathed.
Above, the silent watchers—the gods, the cosmic beings—felt something shift.
A boy who had learned to move grain had just decided to move information.
The world was never the same after that.
✢ V. Threads of a New Web
Over the next months, Narasimha began to weave.
Not with thread.With people.
He started with those who already moved between places:
1. Caravan Boys
The boys who rode with bullock carts, singing to keep themselves awake at night on long roads.
"Whenever you go to the nearest town," he told one, pressing a small cloth bag of chickpeas into his hand, "listen to what the officers say at the inn. Listen to which roads they mention. What tax changes they brag about. When you return, tell Ramu. Even if you don't understand, repeat the words."
"And what do I get?" the boy asked, practical.
"Food here when your cart stops," Narasimha said promptly. "A place to sleep when you need. And if someone troubles your family, we step in."
The boy thought, then grinned.
"That is better than one coin," he said. "Done."
2. Temple Helpers
The young boys and girls who cleaned lamps, swept floors, and overheard offerings and complaints.
"Don't stop your work," he told them. "Just… keep your ears open when rich men or Company peons talk loudly, thinking you are part of the wall."
He gave them simple instructions:
"Don't lie. Don't add spice. Just tell me exactly what you heard, even if it sounds boring."
If ten mouths repeated the same "boring" line, he knew it was no longer boring.
It was pattern.
3. Women at the Well
He knew better than to order them.
He simply went one morning, carrying his own small pot, and listened.
Women talked of everything:
taxsicknessfightswho had met which officerwhose land was being measured again.
After a few visits and careful, respectful conversation, he tried:
"If ever you hear that Company men will come quickly, or that some seth is planning to take land in our villages," he said to an older woman known for her sharp tongue, "send a child to the house. Tell them to say only one thing: 'Clouds gathering, close the windows.' If we hear that, we will know to be careful."
She snorted.
"Clouds are always gathering and going without raining," she said. "How will you know which is real?"
He smiled.
"Because you will not waste footsteps for nothing," he replied. "If you send word, I know it matters."
Her eyes glinted with reluctant respect.
"Fine," she agreed. "We will see if you deserve to be warned."
4. Performers, Barbers, and Others
Traveling storytellers, singers, barbers—all professions that required people to talk while someone else listened.
He didn't turn them into spies.
He simply said:
"If you hear of new taxes, new officers, new punishments… tell my people when you pass. We will not pay you with gold every time. But we will remember who warned and who stayed silent."
Slowly, through these everyday roles, a web formed.
Not tight yet.Not professional.
But real.
❖ VI. The Ledger of Whispers
Narasimha's ledger began to change.
It still had entries like:
Salt – bought from X, sold here.Cloth – batch from Y, dyed, sent to Z.
But now new sections appeared, coded in his own way:
"Drum" – means Company patrol with extra carts."Crow at well" – overheard peon gossiping about new revenue."River high" – roads being watched. Don't move grain.
He used symbols, not names.
A curved line for one officer.A triangle for another.
Dots for certain villages.
Only he, his father, and two others knew how to read it.
One night, his mother caught him hunched over the palm leaves, eyes strained in lamplight.
"What now?" she sighed. "More numbers?"
"More trouble," he said absently. "I am trying to measure it."
She massaged his temples gently.
"You are ten," she murmured. "When I was your age, my biggest fear was missing mango season."
He leaned into her touch despite himself.
"When I was my 'previous life' age," he muttered, half joking, "my biggest fear was clearing exams. Now it is British officers."
She frowned at the strange phrase but let it go.
"Don't let your mind become only maps and problems," she warned. "Leave space for laughter."
He nodded.
"As long as laughter doesn't come with tax," he said.
✶ VII. Heaven Watches a Web Grow
In Vaikuntha, the six watched with increasing attention.
On a vast, glowing surface—somewhere between map and mandala—little lights flickered where Narasimha's "eyes" lived.
Caravan boys.Temple children.Old women at wells.Storytellers moving between markets.
"Look at that," Saraswati said softly. "He has turned daily chatter into structured information."
Lakshmi nodded, impressed.
"He is paying with protection as much as with coin," she observed. "Correct. In Kaliyuga, safety is a greater currency than money in many places."
Parvati smiled.
"And he worries for them," she added. "He remembers not to push them too far. That is the difference between a network built by fear and one built by trust."
Maheshwara's gaze was contemplative.
"Knowledge is a blade sharper than any weapon we bless him with," he remarked. "If he keeps this, he will one day fight enemies who never even see his face."
Vishnu, ever watching larger flows, glanced sideways—toward another plane where early sorcerers, proto-S.H.I.E.L.D. minds, and even distant Eternals sometimes checked Earth's threads.
"They are not the only ones building eyes," he commented. "But his web has something others lack: dharma at its center. He will not use it to crush small men just to feel tall."
Brahma dipped his stylus.
Age 10–12: foundation of information network. 'First Thousand Eyes' phase.
He wrote it into Narasimha's story.
✢ VIII. The Network's First Real Test
The test came sooner than anyone—mortal or divine—expected.
One evening, as the sky darkened and the first stars peeked out, a fisherman from a nearby water body arrived at the Uyyalawada house, dripping and breathless.
He wasn't one of the usual messengers.
He bowed low.
"Dora's boy," he gasped, seeing Narasimha in the courtyard, "I bring word from the big road."
Narasimha's spine straightened.
"Speak," he said.
"A cartman I know heard at the inn," the man explained, "that a Company officer from further east, one who hates all chiefs and rebels, is riding here with soldiers—secretly. No announcement. He says he wants to 'catch local hoarders and agitators' by surprise. They plan to arrive just before dawn, surround houses before anyone wakes."
Ramu swore under his breath.
Narasimha's mind snapped into motion.
"Which road?" he demanded.
"The one by the old banyan, not the usual," the man said. "He thinks if he doesn't come from the main road, you cannot prepare."
Narasimha's lip curled.
"So he knows we prepare," he muttered. "Annoying."
He called his father.
Quickly, he laid it out.
"A harsher officer this time," he said. "More men. They will not be satisfied with one glance into storerooms. They will dig."
His father's jaw set.
"What do you propose?" he asked.
Narasimha tapped his fingers on the courtyard stone.
"We cannot move everything tonight," he said. "That will draw attention. Instead, we must rearrange what they see."
He outlined his plan in short, sharp phrases:
Move some grain into villagers' homes, so it looked like shared reserves instead of hoarded wealth in one place.
Place very visible small stock in the temple, showing piety and willingness to care for community.
In one outer shed, leave a few sacks more than usual, along with registers clearly showing harvest and distribution, to satisfy their hunger for catching "something."
"And the hidden places?" his father asked.
"We still cover them, but we also make sure no one visits them tonight," Narasimha said. "If they see fresh footprints, they will pry."
His father listened, then nodded once.
"Do it," he said. "Quickly. Quietly."
The household moved.
Ramu and trusted workers carried sacks in twos and threes, no big lines, no large groups.Women quietly shifted smaller stores out of obvious corners.Ledgers were brought out, checked, and placed precisely where a suspicious officer would look and find what he expected to find.
The only ones who slept deeply that night were children too young to understand and very old people too tired to care.
Narasimha lay on his mat, eyes open, listening for hoofbeats.
They came before dawn.
✵ IX. How to Feed a Wolf Without Losing the Flock
The officer who rode in this time was different.
Hard eyes.Thin lips.An air of permanent contempt.
He didn't bother with courtesies.
"Bring your records," he snapped. "Open every store. We have reports that this region is hiding grain and supporting troublemakers."
Narasimha's father handed over ledgers without flinching.
"Everything is here," he said. "We do not hide our duty."
The officer snorted.
"We shall see," he said.
He went first to the outer sheds.
He found grain there.Not too much.Enough for a reasonable estate.
He demanded explanations.
He got calm, measured answers.
He moved to the temple.
Seeing sacks labelled as "relief for bad harvest," his lip curled.
"Superstition," he muttered. "But… it looks good on reports."
He checked villagers' houses at random.
Old women protested as soldiers stepped over cooking pots.
He saw small stores—some rice, some lentils. No overflowing hoards.
Slowly, his suspicion thinned.
He still did a second round.
At one point, he snapped at Narasimha's father:
"You are clever," he said. "Too clever. I will watch this place."
"Watch as much as you like," the chieftain replied calmly. "We have no fear of honest eyes."
Narasimha, standing at the side, watched everything.
He didn't speak.
He looked harmless.Tired.Young.
Only once did the officer's gaze linger on him.
"How old are you?" he demanded suddenly.
"Ten, saheb," Narasimha replied in simple Telugu-accented Hindi.
"Too old to be standing in men's discussions," the officer snapped. "Go play."
"Yes, saheb," Narasimha said dutifully, stepping back.
Inside, he filed the man's voice, manner, and patterns away like another entry in his growing ledger.
When the Company finally left, leaving behind only dust, resentment, and a few bruised egos, the village exhaled as if one lung.
Narasimha didn't.
He waited until the last horseman vanished beyond the far hill.
Only then did he let his shoulders sag.
Ramu clapped him on the back.
"You did it again," he said. "Fed the wolf without letting him draw blood."
Narasimha shook his head.
"No," he said quietly. "Not 'I'. We. The fisherman who brought word. The inn-cartman. The temple boy who knew who to trust. The women at the well who told me that peon had been asking too many questions."
He looked toward the village, where ordinary people were already returning to ordinary tasks.
"A king who stands alone is a fool," he muttered. "I intend to stand on many feet."
✢ X. Naming the Invisible
That evening, his father found him again with palm leaves spread before him.
"You need a bigger table," his father observed.
"I need a second brain," Narasimha replied. "With less complaining."
His father sat.
"What are you calling all this?" he asked, gesturing to the coded notes.
The boy hesitated.
"I've been thinking," he said slowly. "Grain stores, cloth, iron, trade… those are outer things. This—" he tapped the notes "—is inner. Hidden. Secret circle."
He rolled the words on his tongue.
"Rahasya Mandal," he said at last. "Secret Circle. That is what this will become. A ring of people who see and listen and move before danger arrives."
His father tasted the phrase.
"Rahasya Mandal," he repeated. "Good name. Too grand for now, but one day… maybe it will fit."
Narasimha smiled.
"For now, it is just me, some gossiping aunties, and a few boys who run fast," he said. "Hardly a Mandal."
His father chuckled.
"Even a chariot starts as pieces of wood and rope," he said. "One day, men will ride it into war."
He sobered.
"Remember what I told you," he said. "Do not forget that your 'eyes' are people first. Information second."
"I won't forget," Narasimha promised. "If I do, you can hit me with your paperweight."
His father raised an eyebrow.
"That stone is for your own hand," he said. "To hold your records in place when wind blows. But if necessary, yes, I will throw it at your head."
✶ XI. Above, Beyond, and Between
Far above, in realms that touched many universes at once, a few other watchers updated their own assessments.
In a chamber filled with relics and glowing diagrams, an elder sorcerer—one of the line that would, long after, lead to the Ancient One—closed his eyes briefly.
"The lion soul in Bharatavarsa strengthens its web," he murmured.
A younger disciple frowned.
"Is that a threat to the balance?" he asked.
"Not yet," the elder replied. "He weaves to protect, not dominate. When the age of costumed heroes comes, when beings from other worlds step brazenly onto Earth's soil, we may need such a soul as counterweight."
"And until then?" the disciple pressed.
"Until then, we do what we swore," the elder said calmly. "Observe. Intervene only when cosmic law is at stake, not human politics."
On another distant rock, an Eternal who had once walked India's soil glanced down and smirked.
"Still busy, little lion?" he murmured. "Good. This world will need more than one kind of guardian."
He turned away, letting the timeline continue without his hand.
✵ XII. The Lion and His Thousand Eyes
Back in Uyyalawada, Narasimha sat on the rooftop again, exhaustion heavy, satisfaction just behind it.
He thought of faces:
The temple boy's wide eyes.The fisherman's rough hands.The caravan lad's cracked feet.The old woman at the well's sharp tongue.
They were his first "thousand eyes"—not literally a thousand, not yet, but enough to make the world feel… less blind.
He whispered into the night:
"Thank you."
He did not know if they heard those thanks in any way.
But the gods did.
In Vaikuntha, Lakshmi Devi smiled.
"See?" she said. "Our son of many lives is building his own army. Not of swords, not yet. Of trust."
Parvati nodded.
"And he still cries about work," she added fondly.
They watched as he lay back, covering his face with one arm, muttering:
"If this is how tiring it is just to be small Dora… what sin did I commit that you are planning king, empire, immortality and Marvel-level headaches on my head?"
Vishnu chuckled softly.
"You committed the sin of caring," he said. "And then promising. We merely took you seriously."
Maheshwara's eyes gleamed.
"Let him rest a few years more as child," he said. "Soon, his 'Thousand Eyes' will have to look at battlefields, not just ledgers."
Brahma turned another page.
The title at the top of the new section read:
From Eyes to Shadows: Birth of the Empire of Information.
For now, however, that was future.
Present was enough.
A ten-year-old boy in a dusty corner of South India had decided he would never again be caught unaware if he could help it.
He had built his first web.He had passed his first true test.He had given fear a new opponent: preparedness.
The Deathless Lion was still a child.
But now, when the world looked at Rayalaseema, it did not merely see land and drought and salt.
Unseen, it was now also looking back—
through a growing thousand eyes,all quietly guided by a boy who complained about paperworkand still chose to carry the weight of vigilance.
✦ End of Chapter 9 – "The First Thousand Eyes" ✦