✵ I. The Year the Clouds Forgot Their Work
The year Narasimha turned twelve and some months, the clouds misbehaved.
They came to the Rayalaseema sky like guests to a wedding:
all noise at the beginning,
all promise and perfume,
And then… half of them left without blessing the house.
The first rains fell properly.
The second came late.
The third never came.
Fields that had stood proud with tender green now shimmered in a dull, uncertain yellow. Cracks snaked across the earth near dry tanks. The wind carried dust instead of coolness.
One noon, Narasimha rode out with Ramu, surveying the land.
From a distance, it looked almost normal.
Up close, it smelled of worry.
Farmers stood at the edges of their fields, arms folded, faces tight—not yet panicking, but no longer relaxed.
"This patch will give half yield if we're lucky," Ramu murmured, nudging his bullock toward a parched section.
"Third, if the next ten days stay like this," Narasimha corrected quietly.
"Don't promote misfortune," Ramu grumbled.
"I'm not promoting," Narasimha replied. "I'm… pre-complaining."
He crouched, scooped a handful of dry soil, let it trickle through his fingers.
Dust clung to his skin.
He dusted his hands off on his dhoti, frowning.
"Clouds are like officials," he muttered. "They arrive late and leave early."
Ramu snorted despite his mood.
"You are becoming unwise, kanna," he said. "If sky hears, it may decide not to come at all."
"It already decided," Narasimha replied. "Now we decide what to do."
His Trinetra reports had already been painting the same picture:
North: one district's tank nearly dry.
West: some crops stunted.
East: coastal rains better, but inland belts worrying.
South: patchy. Some villages complaining of failed second sowing.
In earlier years, his concern would have been limited:
"How do we protect our own people?"
Now, with Trinetra's eyes reaching farther, a more complex question sat on his shoulders:
"How do we protect our own, without stealing life from someone else?"
Because every sack of grain moved from one place to another carved a wound somewhere.
He could no longer pretend that "far away" meant "not his problem".
❖ II. Trinetra's Warning
That evening, in the inner hall, he spread his palm-leaf reports like a general's battle map.
Small marks indicated:
rain levels,
crop condition,
local reserves,
and how much of those reserves could be moved without collapse.
His father sat at the head of the low table.
His mother stitched quietly nearby, listening with one ear and heart.
Ramu and two senior elders flanked them.
"Trinetra says," Narasimha began, "that within a month, three clusters of villages that depend heavily on our trade routes will feel hunger. Not the 'we want more rice' kind. The kind where people begin to sell their bullocks and bangles for one sack."
He tapped the leaf.
"Here, here, and here," he pointed. "The tax collectors have already come early, demanding their full share. Some local petty officers, hoping to impress Company, have not allowed any temporary relief."
His father's jaw tightened.
"They know the rains are failing," he said. "And still they squeeze."
"They squeezed faster because they know," Narasimha replied. "If they take early, they can claim 'regular revenue' before any declaration of drought forces them to show small mercy."
He exhaled.
"If we do nothing, two things will happen," he continued. "First: people suffer. Second: slow anger builds—not just against Company, but against… all power. Including us."
An elder nodded reluctantly.
"A hungry man does not distinguish between tyrant and local lord," he said. "He only sees full houses and empty stomach."
Narasimha's fingers tapped lightly on the table.
"We have reserves," he said. "Hidden stores, scattered. Enough to keep our people from famine this season. But if we appear to hoard while surrounding areas starve, we will become enemies in their stories."
He looked up.
"So I suggest this," he said. "We use Trinetra to move grain where it will stitch gaps, not feed one side while tearing another."
✢ III. Designing a Famine Shield
He stood, went to the wall where a cloth map of the region hung.
"Think of our grain like water in connected pots," he said. "We cannot fill one to overflowing while others crack dry. We must bring all to a level where suffering does not cross a certain line."
On the map, he had marked:
Green circles – villages with relatively stable harvest and some reserve.
Yellow circles – villages strained, but not yet desperate.
Red circles – places where Trinetra's reports spoke of failing crops and heavy tax.
From the green, lines went toward yellow and red.
"We move grain from green to yellow and red," he said, "but never so much that green itself turns yellow. We also adjust prices: in red zones, we lower cost sharply or quietly delay payment. In green, we maintain moderate prices. In all, we secretly subsidize—using profits from cloth and salt."
An elder raised an eyebrow.
"You are suggesting," he said slowly, "that we take the silver we earned from clever trade and pour it back into feeding villages that are not even formally ours?"
"Yes," Narasimha said simply.
"And how will you explain this to the world?" the elder challenged. "To British? To rival chiefs who will say, 'Look, Uyyalawada wastes coin on sentiment'?"
Narasimha's eyes hardened.
"I will not explain," he said. "I will build a reputation: 'When clouds fail, go to Uyyalawada roads; you will not be turned away.' That is worth more than coin. Later, when I need men, allies, or silence… that memory will buy it."
His father's gaze glinted with pride.
"And how do you propose to do this without inviting a raid from Company?" he asked. "If they see grain moving in bulk during poor rains, they may suspect hoarding or smuggling."
"Two ways," Narasimha replied. "First: spread movements over time and route—no long caravans, only multiple small ones. Second: invite one British officer to see only what we wish him to see, so he writes reassuring reports."
"Ah," Ramu said, grinning. "Feed wolf a small goat so he doesn't look for the herd."
"Exactly," Narasimha said. "We arrange a small, 'charitable distribution' in front of him in one village close to our estate—controlled, neat. He writes: 'Local chief assisting famine prevention. Loyal subject.' While he watches that, real work happens farther along the web."
His mother, who had been silent, spoke softly.
"Can we afford this?" she asked. "Not just in grain or coin. In… you."
He paused.
"I cannot afford not to," he answered.
❖ IV. The Boy Who Became Heir in One Morning
The chosen village for "show" lay a few miles from Uyyalawada, just enough distance to appear separate, close enough to support quickly.
On the appointed day, a British officer and his small escort rode in, boots dusty.
He looked around at the neat lines of villagers, the simple canopy set up near the temple, the modest but real stacks of grain.
Narasimha, dressed simply but impeccably, stood beside his father.
In public, he bowed like the obedient son of a loyal house.
Inside, Trinetra was already humming.
Signals had gone out the previous night:
drums with specific beats in distant hamlets;
a lamp placed high on a certain shrine;
a red cloth tied on a different well-pole.
By the time this officer arrived to watch Uyyalawada distribute grain in a carefully measured "relief" event, smaller carts had already begun moving quietly along secondary paths, feeding yellow and red zones.
The officer dismounted with a mixture of entitlement and heat-swollen annoyance.
"Chieftain," he said curtly to Narasimha's father, "we appreciate your cooperation. Headquarters insists that we record native assistance in such difficult seasons."
"Of course," his father said smoothly. "We only do our duty."
The officer's gaze moved to Narasimha.
"And this is…?" he asked.
"My son," the chieftain replied. "He assisted in arranging the logistics."
The officer snorted.
"A child?" he said. "Playing at accounts?"
Narasimha raised his eyes, polite and steady.
"Not playing, saheb," he said in careful Hindustani. "Just… learning quickly before time runs out."
The officer frowned, thrown off-balance by the calm tone.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Narasimha glanced at the nearing villagers—thin, tired, eyes hopeful.
"If we do not learn fast in Kaliyuga," he said lightly, "problems do not wait for moustache to grow."
A small ripple of restrained amusement moved through the local headmen standing nearby.
The officer grunted, half annoyed, half begrudging.
He stepped aside as the distribution began.
Villagers approached in small groups, their names checked against simple lists prepared based on Trinetra reports of who had lost most.
The grain given here was not huge.
Enough for a few weeks.
Enough to show genuine care.
As each family came forward, Narasimha watched:
their posture,
their thanks or hesitation,
the way they glanced at the British officer.
He saw fear, curiosity, resentment, gratitude.
All woven together.
When an older woman bent to touch his father's feet, tears streaking her cheeks, her voice shook.
"Dora," she said, not loudly, but audibly, "if you had not sent word, my grandchildren would have slept hungry tonight. May God give you long life."
The officer's shoulders relaxed.
He liked this.
Grateful natives.
Calm local power cooperating.
He scribbled quickly in his notebook:
Local chieftain Uyyalawada appears cooperative and effective in handling partial scarcity. Public sentiment favourable. No signs of anti-Company agitation at present.
As he wrote, he entirely missed the glances passing between Narasimha and a temple boy at the edge of the gathering:
One short nod.
No words.
Message received:
Other carts have passed safely. Red villages have eaten.
✢ V. Edges of the Marvel World
Far away in Madras, Edward Cavendish received the report a week later.
He read it twice.
"No signs of anti-Company agitation at present."
He tapped the quill against his lip.
"When the Empire writes 'no signs'," he murmured, "it often means: 'We are not looking in the right place.'"
He flipped back to the earlier file where "Uyyalawada" had been underlined.
Now he drew a small star beside the latest note.
This time, in his private margin, he wrote:
Subject seems to understand famine management and information flow at a level unusual for his age and station. Watch for long-term influence. Potential nodal figure in any future southern unrest—either as stabiliser or instigator.
A colleague passing by glanced at his desk.
"Still obsessing over that inland boy?" he teased. "You should request a transfer to his dusty village if you like him so much."
Edward smiled faintly.
"Sometimes," he said, "the most dangerous men are those who keep things calm."
He did not know yet that his interest would be inherited—not by blood, but by tradition.
Decades later, when the British world birthed its own independent gentlemen spies, old notes like these would help shape decisions about where to look for allies beyond Europe.
A small line, a tiny file, would help connect one Rayalaseema lion to a future of tailored suits and hidden umbrellas.
For now, it was just ink.
❖ VI. The Lion's Double Face
That night, the simple ceremony in the village ended.
The officer rode away, pleased with his clean narrative:
"Loyal native chief, helpful son, happy villagers."
Back in Uyyalawada, Narasimha slumped against a pillar in the inner hall, groaning.
"Are we done?" he asked. "Please tell me there are no more 'small humble distribution events' tomorrow. My cheeks hurt from polite smiling."
Ramu chuckled.
"You looked like proper heir," he said. "Straight back, calm voice, wise eyes. Some of your old teachers would be proud."
"They should try it," Narasimha muttered. "Standing there while men who didn't suffer last month pretend they are heartbroken today. And acting grateful while the real wolves sit behind them."
His father entered, hearing the last line.
"Who is wolf?" he asked mildly.
"Not you, Appa," Narasimha said quickly. "At least not today."
They shared a tired smile.
His father sat beside him.
"What did you learn today?" he asked.
Narasimha tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling.
"That being 'seen' as saviour and being useful as saviour are not the same," he said. "To that officer, today was picture. To those villages you do not see, Trinetra's quiet caravans mattered more."
His father nodded.
"And what else?" he pressed.
"That my face hurts when I lie even a little," Narasimha added grudgingly. "Smiling and saying 'We only did our duty' when in truth we did much more… it feels like hiding."
"Is it lie?" his father asked quietly. "You did do your duty. You simply did not describe whole of it to men who would misuse that knowledge."
He clasped his son's shoulder.
"You are not required to bare your entire heart to men who see land as ledger," he said. "You must bare it to those who bleed when land fails."
Narasimha exhaled, some tension leaving.
"Then my heart is very tired, Appa," he admitted. "Sometimes I just want to go back to being the boy who argued about laddoos."
His father's eyes softened.
"You are still that boy," he said. "You just argue with famine and Empire now."
✶ VII. Heaven Marks the Threshold
That night, in Vaikuntha, the six watched him fall asleep sitting up, head knocking lightly against the pillar before his mother gently guided him to his mat.
Lakshmi's eyes shimmered.
"He is walking the line now," she said softly. "Not fully child. Not yet full king. Half foot on each side."
Saraswati nodded.
"This is the age," she observed, "when minds either stretch to carry burden… or crack under it."
Parvati looked down at him with a mother's intensity.
"Will he crack?" she asked.
Maheshwara answered first.
"No," he said simply. "He will bend. He will complain loudly. He will sometimes try to hide in small joys. But he will not break. The vows in him are too deep."
Vishnu's gaze was far.
"He has used our boons well so far," he said. "He has not leaned on them for laziness. He has used information to prevent blood instead of seeking glory in disaster. I think… it is time to deepen the seed."
Brahma lifted his stylus.
"Phase shift," he murmured. "From Childhood Prodigy to Warrior-Prince."
He wrote words only they could see:
Ichha-Marana – fully awakened at soul level.
Combat intuition – heightened.
Aura resilience – strengthened.
Burden of insight – increased.
❖ VIII. The Temple of Echoing Footsteps
A few days later, Narasimha found himself drawn to the old temple on the hill overlooking the village.
No one called him.
No one ordered a special ritual.
He simply woke before dawn one morning with a restlessness that wouldn't let him lie down.
His feet carried him along the stone steps.
Mist clung to the path. Birds argued sleepily in the trees.
Inside the small, ancient sanctum, lamps flickered low.
The priest, used to his visits, nodded drowsily and left him alone for a while.
Narasimha stood before the murti—simple, time-worn, powerful.
He did not have grand words.
He had… tired honesty.
"Deva," he whispered, folding his hands, "if I complain too much, forgive me. But also understand—this is a lot."
His voice was small in the stone chamber.
"I am twelve," he continued. "In this life. I know you remember what I was before, but I… do not remember clearly. I only feel… weight. I will carry it. I promised. But… if you can, send me more people to share it. Trinetra cannot be just my headache."
He bowed his head low.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then—a stillness.
Not the normal, everyday quiet.
A deep, full silence that made even his own heartbeat sound like drum in his ears.
He felt:
something warm at the centre of his chest, where his vow-root lived,
a faint pressure at the back of his mind, like a third point of seeing opening—not sight, but sense,
and a strange certainty:
You will not die until you choose.
He had heard those words before, as a child, from a half-seen being in a half-remembered dream.
Now… they felt signed.
Confirmed.
Not just as possibility, but as law.
He straightened slowly, breathing in.
The tired ache in his limbs remained.
But beneath it, his body felt… denser. More responsive.
His awareness of space shifted.
He could tell, without fully turning, where the nearest pillar was.
He could feel, with faint clarity, where a stone on the floor slightly jutted out.
"If someone attacked me now," he thought absently, "my hands would move before my thoughts finished."
A small, helpless laugh escaped him.
"Wonderful," he muttered to the deity. "More responsibility, in the package of strength. You really sell nothing cheaply."
The lamp flame flickered as if amused.
✢ IX. Between Lion and Boy
On the way back down the hill, he found his younger cousin sitting on a step, scowling at a broken toy cart.
"It broke," the boy declared immediately, as if Narasimha were personally responsible.
"Of course," Narasimha said gravely. "All things break. Carts, clouds, patience."
His cousin thrust the toy at him.
"Fix," he demanded.
Narasimha stared at it.
A tiny wooden axle had split.
He sighed, tore a strip from the edge of his old angavastram, and tied it around the break, binding it tightly.
The wheels still wobbled.
But they moved.
The boy's face brightened.
"Thanks!" he said, immediately running off.
Narasimha stayed seated for a moment, watching him go.
"Apt," he murmured to himself. "I go to temple seeking cosmic guidance, and come back to tie broken axles."
He touched his chest.
The new deepness in his aura did not go away.
But neither did the simple, mundane reality:
People would come to him with broken carts,
broken fields,
broken hearts,
and expect him to tie them together somehow.
He exhaled.
"All right," he told the morning air. "Lion in court, tired clerk in hall, toy-cart repairman on stairs. We will manage."
✶ X. Closing the Arc: The Line is Crossed
By the end of that season, several things had quietly settled into place:
Villages in red zones had eaten, not feasted—but eaten enough to stand.
The British administration had recorded Uyyalawada as "cooperative" and "stabilising".
Trinetra had proved it could move resources not just to shield one estate, but to balance pain across regions.
Narasimha's Ichha-Marana had matured from seed to living law in his soul.
His combat intuition and aura resilience nudged him from "sharp child" into the beginnings of a true Warrior-Prince.
He still complained about paperwork.
He still laughed too loudly when cousins dragged him into games.
But in the minds of those who watched him closely—his father, his elders, and unseen gods—it was clear:
The line between "boy" and "heir" had been crossed.
From here on, his decisions would no longer affect just one village or one season.
They would begin to echo into:
neighbouring kingdoms,
British strategy,
early European intelligence,
and, decades later, the strange, bright world where men in iron armour, super-soldiers, and gods from other realms would walk the earth openly.
For now, all of that slept in the future.
On this day, in this chapter, there was only:
A tired twelve-year-old in dusty clothes,
scratching at a ledger with one hand,
absently rubbing his aching temple with the other,
and muttering under his breath:
"If this is only the beginning, Bhagavan, then when I finally meet these so-called 'Avengers' in some distant age, I am making them do at least half my paperwork."
Somewhere beyond the veil, Vishnu laughed softly.
"We heard you," he said.
The universe, merged and waiting, turned a page.
✦ End of Chapter 12 – "The Line Between Boy and Heir" ✦