✵ I. A Name for the Invisible
By twelve, Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy had a problem he didn't expect:
His network no longer fit inside his old words.
"Rahasya Mandal," he muttered one evening, staring at a palm leaf. "Secret Circle. Sounds nice. Feels… fat. Slow. Like an old man sitting in dharmashala and giving advice."
He scratched the name out, wrote it again, then crossed it halfway.
Ramu peered over his shoulder.
"What's wrong with it?" he asked. "It is secret, it is a circle, it works."
Narasimha chewed on the end of his stylus.
"We are no longer just a circle that keeps things quietly inside," he said. "We are starting to see outward. To look beyond Rayalaseema… beyond Andhra. Eyes in other places. Ears in other ports. Rahasya Mandal sounds like something that hides in a corner."
He looked up at the night sky.
Stars watched him without blinking.
"I want something sharper," he sighed. "Something that means: 'We see what others don't.'"
Ramu shrugged.
"Call it 'Many Eyes' then," he said. "Or 'Annoying Ears'."
Narasimha groaned.
"This is why I don't ask you to name children," he said.
That night, sleep came slowly.
When it did, it brought with it a dream that felt less like fantasy and more like someone gently tugging at the edge of his consciousness.
He saw:
A vast darkness.
A single, closed eye.
Then another.
Then a third—blazing, vertical, in the center of a great brow.
Fire danced within it, not consuming, only revealing.
A voice, deep and still as mountains, seemed to breathe through the space:
"To guard, you must see with more than two."
He woke with a gasp, breath misting faintly in the early dawn air.
"Third eye…" he whispered. "Trinetra."
The word settled on his tongue like it had always been waiting there.
He smiled, small and fierce.
"Not bad," he admitted. "Thank you, Mahadev."
Somewhere far on Kailasa, Parvati Devi nudged Maheshwara with a fond smile.
"Did you whisper in his dream?" she teased.
Maheshwara's eyes remained half-closed, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
"I merely showed him a symbol," he replied. "He chose the name himself."
Lakshmi chuckled.
"Trinetra," she repeated. "The Third Eye. Fitting. His network sees, burns lies, and scares people if needed."
Saraswati added softly,
"And like the third eye, it must be opened sparingly, or the world will scorch."
Brahma wrote in the margin of Narasimha's unwritten story:
Rahasya Mandal → operational name: Trinetra.
The new chapter of his hidden empire had just been titled.
❖ II. Trinetra: From Circle to Web
The next day, in a small inner room that smelled of ink, palm leaves, and sweat, Narasimha sat with his father, Ramu, and two of his most trusted messengers.
"Up till now," he said, tapping the tabletop, "we have been calling all this—" he gestured around, meaning roads, whispers, warnings "—Rahasya Mandal. Secret Circle."
He shook his head.
"It no longer fits. We are not just whispering in a circle. We are looking outward… like a third eye."
He wrote the word slowly on a fresh leaf:
त्रिनेत्र — Trinetra.
"Trinetra," he said aloud. "This will be the name of our organization. Our spy network. Our… third eye over this land."
Ramu rolled the word in his mouth.
"Tri… netra," he repeated. "Feels sharper than Rahasya Mandal."
His father's fingers traced the letters.
"Also carries weight," he said quietly. "Men may mock a 'circle', but they think twice before mocking an eye that sees what they hide."
One messenger, a lean boy who spent half his life on convoy routes, looked puzzled.
"Why 'three'?" he asked. "Two eyes are already hard enough to manage. I always bump into everything."
They laughed.
Narasimha smiled.
"Trinetra is not about how many eyes," he explained. "It is about how deeply we see. Two eyes see surface. Third eye sees connection, intent, threat. We don't just hear that 'officer came'. We see 'officer came after this letter, with these orders, along this route, with this weakness.'"
He drew a simple diagram.
"From now," he continued, "those who bring us news and carry messages will be called Netras—eyes. Those who plan how to move based on that news will be Mastishkas—brains. Those who perform quiet actions when needed will be Karmas—hands."
"Eyes, brain, hands," Ramu summarized. "You're building a body again."
"Yes," Narasimha said. "Trinetra is not just a list of spies. It is a living thing. One we must keep disciplined, or it will become a monster of rumors."
He paused, then added a rule:
"No one but us in this room will use this name casually," he said. "To the world, they are still 'boys who run messages', 'talkative barbers', 'curious merchants'. Trinetra is for us. And for those we formally induct later."
His father nodded slowly.
"Then let this be first commandment of your Trinetra," he said. "Eyes must not blind their own people."
✢ III. Looking Beyond the Horizon
With the name came ambition.
Trinetra was not meant to stop at Uyyalawada's borders.
"Rayalaseema is our heart," Narasimha told Ramu one afternoon, tracing routes on a rough cloth map. "But heart alone cannot stand if limbs are weak. We need to extend our sensing beyond our region."
He tapped four directions.
"West—toward Mysore," he said. "North—toward Hyderabad and Nagpur. East—coastal ports that connect to Bengal. South—toward Tamil lands and Ceylon routes."
Ramu whistled softly.
"You want a big body," he said. "Soon you will be feeling even British officers' stomach rumbling from here."
Narasimha grinned briefly, then sobered.
"First we attach ourselves to caravans already moving that way," he said. "No need to create new routes yet. We become the wind that rides existing paths."
Salt and cloth had already carried his influence into neighboring districts.
Now, he leveraged that.
He identified:
Two merchants who regularly took textiles toward Mysore's markets.
One grain trader with old links to Hyderabad.
A coastal contact in Masulipatnam who sometimes sent goods further east.
A wandering storyteller troupe with connections in Tamil villages and occasional invitations to perform at small ports heading to Ceylon.
He didn't fully trust any of them.
But he trusted their needs—for protection, fair trade, and predictable allies.
In the dim quiet of their inner hall, he drew several small circles on a map.
"These are new Trinetra points," he said. "Places where, if we have at least one loyal eye, we can see shadows long before they cross our fields."
His father watched.
"This is where you stop being just a clever estate boy," he observed. "And start being what British will fear: a man with influence in many presidencies."
"Good," Narasimha said. "Let them fear early. Then they make mistakes earlier."
❖ IV. First Reach: Mysore's Markets
The first true test of outward Trinetra came from the west.
Two of "his" cloth merchants—once independent traders, now quietly under the Uyyalawada umbrella—were preparing to travel towards the Mysore region.
In earlier years, they had gone with only guards, some coins, and blind faith.
This time, they carried something new:
Codes.
Contacts.
And quiet backing.
In the courtyard, Narasimha handed one of them a small string of black and white beads.
"If you are in trouble and reach any temple on our list," he said, "show these beads to the priest and ask, 'Is the third lamp lit tonight?' If he answers, 'The lamp sees what the sun cannot,' you can trust him."
The merchant rolled the beads in his fingers.
"And if he says something else?" he asked.
"Then he doesn't know us," Narasimha said simply. "Smile, apologize, move on. Do not reveal more."
He gave the man a few palm leaves, written in plain Telugu.
At first glance, they were just simple devotional verses.
Hidden within, certain letters, when read in sequence, formed messages:
Prices rising in coastal towns.
New officer posted in nearby cantonment—harsh, greedy.
Local chieftain friendly to common folk, possible ally.
"If caught, you are just a devotee carrying prayers," Narasimha said. "If safe, you are Trinetra eyes."
The merchant nodded, nervous but excited.
"Why go to such trouble for us?" he blurted. "We are only traders. Your family is chieftain. You could sit here and eat tax."
Narasimha made a face.
"Tax is worst food," he said. "Tastes of other people's tears. I prefer trade. If our cloth sells in Mysore fairly, your children eat, our weavers eat, our dyers eat… and the Company has less excuse to shove their machine cloth down everyone's throat."
He clapped the man's shoulder.
"Go," he said. "Come back with profit and news. Both are important."
✢ V. Second Reach: Nizam's Shadow
Hyderabad's Nizam-held lands were a different world.
Less direct Company presence.
More layered politics.
The grain trader with connections there, a middle-aged man with careful eyes, fidgeted as he sat across from Narasimha.
"You want me to 'listen' also?" he said. "Not just sell?"
"Yes," Narasimha said. "But not recklessly. I want you to notice certain things."
He handed him a rough list.
New forts being built or repaired.
Sudden movement of large company of armed men.
Heavy coin flowing in or out of certain households.
Any rumours of officers, either Nizam's or Company's, speaking of 'cleaning' southern lands.
"You think they will attack here?" the man asked.
"Not now," Narasimha replied. "But if ever the Nizam feels too pressured by British or internal plots, his men may look for easy places to show strength. We must not be easy."
The trader scratched his beard.
"And what do I get, apart from tired ears?" he asked bluntly.
"Two things," Narasimha said. "First: when you are in trouble—if a local noble harasses you, or Company men try to confiscate your cart on flimsy grounds—you can send word through our network. We will not promise miracles, but we will not let you stand alone. Second: as we grow, we will direct more trade through you. Loyal eyes do not stay hungry."
The man nodded slowly.
"Then I am your eye in Nizam's shadow," he said. "If they blink, you will know."
❖ VI. Third Reach: Salt Winds and Foreign Flags
On the eastern coast, in Masulipatnam, a small, busy warehouse belonged to one Subbayya, a coastal contact whose family had traded salt and cloth for generations.
He had occasionally handled goods from Uyyalawada before.
Now, he found himself invited into something deeper.
"You want me to watch ships also?" he asked, skeptical, as he poured tea into small cups.
Narasimha, visiting under the guise of a simple inland estate heir curious about the sea, nodded.
"Only a little," he said. "I want to know whenever ships with certain flags come more often than usual."
He pointed out a few rough sketches:
Union Jack—Company British.
A stylized lion for certain European traders.
Simple merchant marks for independent cargo.
"And what will you do with that?" Subbayya frowned. "You are inland. Ships are our headache."
"We are all on same head," Narasimha said quietly. "If more Company ships bring cheap cloth and more guns, your trade suffers, our weavers starve, and later, we face more rifles pointed at us."
He did not mention that beyond these flags, other, stranger vessels might one day appear:
Hidden Asgardian craft.
S.H.I.E.L.D.-chartered carriers of the future.
Vessels meant for hydra-like organizations.
Those were still distant.
For now, the concern was simple:
Too many British ships meant tightening noose.
Subbayya sighed.
"I'll send a boy with news when ship patterns change," he agreed. "But don't blame me if half of it sounds like fishermen's tales."
"I like fishermen's tales," Narasimha said. "Many truths hide in their lies. I will sort."
✢ VII. Fourth Reach: Southward Songs
Toward the south, into Tamil lands and toward Ceylon, he used his most unusual messengers: performers.
A well-known troupe of storytellers, musicians, and dancers, who often opened festivals with retellings of Ramayana and Mahabharata, had grown fond of Uyyalawada.
Partly because the chieftain paid fairly.
Partly because his son sat in front row with glowing eyes and corrected them when they took too many liberties with dharma.
"If Ravana is only shown as idiot," Narasimha had once pointed out, "then Rama's victory means less. Make his intelligence sharp but turned wrong. Then the story bites deeper."
They had debated for hours.
Now, he called their leader aside.
"You go to many villages," he said. "Sometimes even temple towns near ports. If, in those places, you hear talk of Company building new roads, new warehouses, or recruiting more locals into their ranks… remember those stories. Bring them back."
The troupe leader tilted his head.
"You want us to be spies?" he asked, half teasing.
"I want you to be storytellers," Narasimha replied. "Just… front-row storytellers. You will simply pick which tales to bring back to me: of new officials, new ships, new rules. As payment, you will have a permanent place in Uyyalawada's festivals. And if someone ever harasses your troupe on the road, send word. We will remember who you are."
The man grinned.
"Agreed," he said. "We will bring you stories you won't hear in any court."
✵ VIII. British Files and a Curious Gentleman
Far away, in a cooler office lined with maps and papers, a British gentleman in the Madras administration flipped through a compiled report.
Unlike the lazy clerk from years before, this man—Edward Cavendish, son of a minor British noble—actually read.
He traced a finger along lines:
Uyyalawada estate… increased trade activity… connections to multiple districts… local reputation for fair dealing… unusual early warning about raids….
He frowned.
"Curious," he murmured.
His superior snorted.
"Some native landlord playing at bania," he dismissed. "They can be industrious when trying to avoid taxes."
Edward's eyes lingered on one annotation:
Subject appears to have organized 'informal communication chains' between villages and traders. No direct evidence of anti-Company rhetoric, but potential for future agitation at scale.
He tapped his chin.
In his family back in England, talk of covert services had always existed—whispers of gentlemen doing quiet work for crown and country.
Something about this Indian chieftain's son, building networks instead of temples to vanity, tugged at an old instinct.
"If this one survives long," he thought, "he will either become our problem or our best possible… mirror."
He made a small note on a separate paper, in a cleaner, more private hand:
Subject of interest—potential future liaison or opponent. Recommend continued observation, not immediate action.
This paper would later, long after Empire and flag shifted, end up in a box that certain men in tailored suits and code-names would study when designing their own independent spy service.
But that was far in the future.
For now, the file went into a drawer labeled "NATIVE ACTIVITY – MONITOR".
❖ IX. Gods Watching Roads on a Map
In Vaikuntha, a vast map shimmered into shape before the six.
Lines of light spread from Uyyalawada outward:
Thin threads toward Mysore.
Curving lines toward Hyderabad.
Flickers toward Masulipatnam and beyond.
Subtle waves southward.
Each line pulsed gently when one of Narasimha's "eyes" sent word.
Lakshmi clasped her hands, eyes shining.
"Look at that," she breathed. "From one village lane to this… network."
Saraswati tilted her head.
"He is turning geography into information," she said. "This is what modern kings must do to survive in Kaliyuga."
Parvati's smile was tinged with worry.
"The more he sees," she murmured, "the harder it will be for him to rest. A man with one village can sleep sometimes. A man who watches four directions… rarely."
Maheshwara's gaze rested on the point of Uyyalawada, where Narasimha's aura burned brightest.
"He is training himself for centuries," he said. "If he cannot bear this early burden, how will he bear the ages to come, when avengers, sorcerers, gods, and aliens walk openly?"
Vishnu chuckled.
"At least he will not be shocked when S.H.I.E.L.D. thinks it invented surveillance," he remarked. "He'll just raise an eyebrow and say, 'We were doing this when you were hunting deer.'"
Brahma wrote, with a hint of satisfaction:
Age 12–14: Outward web; Trinetra established as name, essence, and method.
✢ X. The Lesson of the Broken Boat
Expansion was not without mistakes.
One such mistake floated up from the coast.
Literally.
A small boat carrying goods linked to Uyyalawada—cloth, some spices, and a handful of letters encoded for Trinetra—capsized near a sandbank due to sudden currents and poor judgement.
Most of the men survived, clinging to debris.
The goods, however, were scattered.
Later, a half-ruined sack and a water-damaged letter washed up near a Company patrol.
The officer who found them was more bored than suspicious.
"Smugglers," he shrugged, tossing aside the goods after salvaging whatever coin hadn't been swallowed by the sea.
He didn't bother decoding anything.
The letters looked like half-dissolved devotional verses.
But when word of the accident reached Uyyalawada, Narasimha felt sick.
"Idiot," he told himself, punching his own palm. "I sent too much at once. Too many things on one boat. One mistake, many losses."
Ramu watched him pace.
"It happens," he said. "Sea is not like your ledgers. It does not listen to rules."
"That is exactly why I must respect it more," Narasimha retorted. "If the wrong officer found that letter and had the patience of a hungry crow, he might have started pecking at our codes."
He called his Trinetra core together.
"New rule," he said. "We never send everything through one path. Not grain, not cloth, not messages. If the sea eats one route, land still carries others. If land is blocked, sea still whispers."
He revised:
Some messages would henceforth travel physically with performers and caravan boys, never touching coastal routes.
Only those letters that could be burned safely if compromised would go by boat.
And some critical information would remain unwritten, passed only by spoken word to a select few.
"Trinetra must not be blinded by its own confidence," he told them. "We see far, but we must not forget to see our own feet also."
❖ XI. Between Duty and Childhood
Despite all this, despite maps and codes and spy routes, sometimes the weight was too much.
One afternoon, after a long session of organizing reports from four different directions, Narasimha stumbled out into the courtyard, eyes burning.
He found his younger cousins playing a game of tag, chasing each other around a well, screaming like monkeys.
"Anna!" one of them yelled. "Come play! You always sit inside with old people and leaves!"
For a second, every fibre in him wanted to say no.
So much to do.
So many routes to check.
So many "if, then" chains in his head.
Instead, something in him snapped in a different direction.
"Fine," he growled. "But if I catch you, you will be taxed extra."
He lunged.
They shrieked, scattered.
For a few precious minutes, he forgot officers, dacoits, ships, and Nizams.
He ran.
He laughed.
He nearly tripped over a sleeping dog and swore creatively.
From a shaded veranda, his mother watched with soft eyes.
His father joined her.
"He needs this," she said quietly.
"He does," her husband agreed. "But the world will not give him much of it later."
She swallowed.
"Then let us force him to play while we still can," she said. "Gods have already put too much in his head. We can at least give some mud to his hands."
Up above, Lakshmi smiled sadly.
"Our child has always grown with less play than others," she said. "Even in previous lives."
Parvati nodded.
"But see?" she said. "He still runs when called. That part of him we must protect, even when he becomes emperor, even when Marvel's age dawns. A man who forgets how to laugh becomes dangerous—even in dharma's name."
✶ XII. Closing the "Trinetra Awakens" Phase
By the time his thirteenth birthday came and went, the changes were unmistakable:
The name Trinetra had replaced Rahasya Mandal at the core.
There were now eyes in Mysore markets, Hyderabad's shadows, coastal warehouses, and Tamil temple towns.
A gentleman in Madras had begun secretly underlining Uyyalawada's mentions in reports.
Narasimha had made his first sea mistake—and corrected for it.
His network had shifted from local defense to proto-subcontinental sensing.
He was still only an heir.
The official title of chieftain would come later.
But in practice, in the quiet arteries of information that mattered more than ceremonial thrones, the Deathless Lion was already more than a village boy:
He was a budding spymaster,
a cautious economist,
a reluctant future king,
and the beating heart of something that, a hundred years later, would look suspiciously like the skeleton of RAW, S.H.I.E.L.D., and Kingsman all tangled together in India's south.
For now, though, the world saw only:
A lean, sharp-eyed adolescent who argued with elders about trade routes,
complained loudly about endless ledgers,
and still ran from paperwork like it was a ghost…
even as he quietly opened his Third Eye over Bharat.
✦ End of Chapter 11 – "Trinetra – The Third Eye Opens" ✦