✵ I. When Maps Started to Look Too Small
The first time it truly struck Narasimha that Rayalaseema was too small for the things in his head, he was staring at a map that had no reason to offend him.
It was a simple cloth map, hand-drawn, edges frayed, hung on the inner hall wall.
It showed:
Uyyalawada at the centre.
Villages nearby like beads on a string.
Rough lines toward Kurnool, Cuddapah, Anantapur.
Farther, fainter markings suggesting Mysore, Hyderabad, "Madras Presidency" like vague ghosts.
He'd used this map for years.
He'd grown with it.
But now, at thirteen, with Trinetra's threads stretching in every direction, the map looked… wrong.
Too flat.
Too timid.
"Problem?" Ramu asked, following his gaze.
"Yes," Narasimha said. "This looks like a child's drawing."
"It is," Ramu reminded. "You were ten when we stitched that border."
Narasimha grimaced.
"Exactly," he said. "At ten, my world was this. Now…"
He waved toward the south, toward the west, toward the unseen coasts.
"Now I get reports from villages whose names aren't even on this cloth," he continued. "Our grain moves through roads we never inked. Our cloth sells in markets this map pretends don't exist. Our eyes watch in places whose names the British themselves mispronounce."
He stepped closer, fingertips brushing the faded lines.
"Maps shape how we think," he muttered. "If I keep staring at this, I will plan too small."
Ramu looked at him sideways.
"You want a bigger map?" he asked.
"I want a truer one," Narasimha replied. "One that shows how things flow, not just where they sit."
He turned away from the cloth.
"Fetch the big floor mat," he said. "And lots of chalk. Today we make a new world."
❖ II. Drawing the Invisible
By late afternoon, the main room's floor had turned into a sprawling diagram.
Not a pretty map.
A living sketch.
At the centre, he drew Uyyalawada—a small circle.
From it, he traced thick lines outward:
one toward Kurnool, then on toward Hyderabad,
another toward Anantapur and closer to Mysore lands,
eastward paths toward Cuddapah and the coast,
downward routes that bent into Tamil country.
Around these, he added lighter lines: alternate roads, seasonal paths, caravan detours.
Then came the points:
dots for markets,
crosses for British outposts,
tiny grain-symbols for major storage centres,
small wave-like marks for ports.
His father raised his eyebrows as he entered.
"Have you killed the floor?" he asked mildly.
"I am freeing it," Narasimha said. "Until now, we thought in terms of 'district', 'taluk', 'estate'. British names. But trade and danger don't care about their lines. They follow roads, rivers, and greed."
He pointed around.
"This," he said, "is what Trinetra is really watching: movement. Grain, cloth, coin, orders, soldiers. All of them flow. I want to see where currents are strongest—and where we can quietly alter them."
An elder knelt, squinting.
"These dots far east?" he asked. "Masulipatnam, Nellore, other ports?"
"Yes," Narasimha said. "From Trinetra's reports, British cloth enters strongly here, then leaks inland. If we want our weavers to live, we must place our goods and deals along those routes—before Company cloth hardens into habit."
Another elder tapped the north-west.
"And near Hyderabad?" he asked.
"There," Narasimha said, "coin flows more than cloth. Court politics. Military payments. If we have eyes in that flow, we will learn more about future pressures than any officer's report."
He paused, then added, almost to himself,
"And one day… when larger storms from beyond Bharat's borders roll in, they will come along these veins too. Better we know them before they know us."
He was thinking, vaguely, of things he'd only glimpsed in strange dreams:
Flags he did not recognize.
Metal birds in the sky.
Men in strange armour.
He shook off the images.
One era at a time.
✢ III. Three New Pillars of Expansion
To expand without breaking, Narasimha decided Trinetra's hidden growth needed three pillars:
Trade Expansion – quietly extending economic reach beyond Rayalaseema.
Information Depth – not just more news, but deeper, verified layers.
Local Anchors – trusted people in each far region who could act without constant instructions.
He called a small council in the inner hall.
Not the full village assembly.
Only those whose lives were already half-knotted into Trinetra's threads:
Ramu,
two caravan leaders,
the coastal contact Subbayya's representative,
a grain trader linked to Hyderabad,
the troupe-leader of the storytellers,
and an older farmer whose land touched two important roads.
On the low table between them lay stones, beads, and small carved pieces, each representing something:
Sacks of grain,
bales of cloth,
coins,
letters,
troops.
Narasimha took a deep breath.
"You all know we have been using information to protect ourselves," he began. "To avoid raids. To reduce random loss. To feed where hunger bites hardest."
Heads nodded.
Some eyes held quiet pride.
"Now," he continued, "we must use information to grow—without drawing loud attention. If we do this correctly, our influence will reach far. If we do it wrong, we will look like a headman trying to be emperor overnight—and British, Nizam, and half the neighbours will slap us together."
A few smiles broke.
He dropped three stones on the mat, each in front of a group.
"Trade Expansion," he said, sliding one toward the caravan leaders and Subbayya's man. "I want our goods in more markets—Mysore, Hyderabad suburbs, Tamil towns, coastal cities—under different names if needed. Sometimes not as 'Uyyalawada cloth', but as 'reliable cloth that always appears when others lack'."
"Information Depth," he pushed the second stone toward the storyteller, the older farmer, and the grain trader. "From now on, we don't just want 'there is a new officer' or 'a new tax'. We want to know: who is his friend, what insult angers him, which vices drive him, what debts bind him. This will decide whether we bribe, befriend, oppose, or ignore."
The third stone, he left at the centre.
"Local Anchors," he said quietly. "If all decisions must pass through me, Trinetra will choke. We need people in each region who can make small decisions on the spot that align with our dharma. Not puppets. Partners."
Ramu grunted.
"You are building chiefs under the chief," he said. "Some would call that asking for betrayal."
"Some would," Narasimha agreed. "I say this: a man trusted with real responsibility is more likely to guard the house than burn it. We choose carefully. We watch. We give them room to act, but not to damage."
He smiled faintly.
"And if any one of them tries to rise by cutting those beneath him… we will know. Trinetra sees. And then… Trinetra remembers how to bite."
❖ IV. Boys, Beads, and Boundaries in Mysore
The first major test of Trade Expansion came with a new deal near Mysore.
Through his earlier ventures, Narasimha's cloth had begun trickling into certain markets.
Now, he was ready to change trickle to stream.
The two merchants who had proven themselves reliable returned from a trip with a proposal.
"In a town near the Mysore border," the older merchant said, "there is a small guild of cloth sellers. They are pressured by both English mill cloth and one greedy local supplier who charges high rates because he alone can supply consistently."
"And?" Narasimha asked.
"And they are tired," the younger merchant grinned. "Tired of being his puppets. They said, 'If you can give us steady supply at fair price, we will quietly shift more of our shelves to your cloth, even if we still show his bundles in front.'"
Narasimha's eyes lit.
"Guild loyalty in a foreign zone," he murmured. "That is worth more than coin."
"But," the older merchant cautioned, "they insist no open sign of your house. They don't want trouble from the greedy supplier, who is close to one Company official."
"Agreed," Narasimha said immediately. "Our name is not the point. Our presence is. We can be the cloth that simply… is always there, always good."
He considered.
"From now on," he said, "for such places, we will create sub-marks: minor symbols on bale edges. So when Trinetra eyes visit those markets, they will spot which bundles are ours, even if they sit under someone else's sign."
He sketched a few designs: a tiny three-lined symbol near the hem.
"Discreet Trinetra mark," he said. "Not a lion roaring on the cloth. A whisper."
The younger merchant laughed.
"Lion whispering in Mysore," he said. "Interesting."
"Lions whisper first," Narasimha replied. "Roaring is for when subtlety stops working."
✢ V. A Meeting in Hyderabad's Shadow
On the Hyderabad side, the grain trader returned from a court town with more complex news.
"There is a younger noble in the Nizam's circle," he told Narasimha one evening. "Name: Azim-ud-din Khan. Third son of a minor line. He is not important yet, but… he has ideas."
"What kind?" Narasimha asked.
"Dangerous and useful," the trader said. "He dislikes both British arrogance and his own elders' laziness. He asked me, half in jest, 'Are there any southern houses that still know how to think three moves ahead? I am tired of playing chess with goats.'"
Ramu snorted.
"Goats are offended," he said.
Narasimha tapped the table.
"You think he is worth cultivating?" he asked.
The trader nodded.
"He is not a fool," he replied. "He didn't speak too freely in public. He only hinted, and watched to see if I reacted. I pretended to be slow. But I saw a spark. And… he pays his guards on time. That usually means a man understands loyalty."
Narasimha leaned back.
"Trinetra does not only watch enemies," he mused. "It must notice possible friends. Especially those who sit near other thrones."
He thought a moment.
"We will not rush," he decided. "Next time you go, send him a small, thoughtful gift: perhaps a rare spice mixture, or a book of war stories, through a mutual acquaintance. Nothing grand. If he responds with equal subtlety, we send a little more… and maybe, one day, someone I trust will 'happen' to visit Hyderabad without announcing where he is from."
He smiled.
"Empire is not built only by swords," he murmured. "It is stitched by conversations that look like accidents."
❖ VI. Salt Winds and Rumours of Iron Over the Sea
From the coast, Subbayya's latest letter arrived, half in code, half in his chatty style.
Narasimha spread it open.
Between the lines about fish, floods, and noisy dockmen, certain phrases stood out:
"More ships with the foreign cloth flag this year."
"A stranger with white hair and odd interest in maps and old ruins came asking about temples near the shore."
"Talk of Company wanting to improve 'harbour defence'—more cannons, more soldiers."
He read twice.
"Foreign cloth is expected," he said, more to himself. "But white-haired strangers asking about old temples… that smells different."
Ramu peered over.
"You think… mystics?" he asked. "Treasure hunters?"
"Maybe both," Narasimha said. "Or something else. We are not the only ones who know that the sea hides more than fish."
In some distant corner of the merged cosmos, he imagined:
An early European mystic, drawn by whispers of Hindu relics.
A future Hydra-like researcher sniffing out "power sources."
Or even an occultist whose notes would one day be read by someone like Johann Schmidt.
He did not know names.
He knew patterns.
"When people who usually care only for trade suddenly start caring for temples and old stones near water," he said, "I pay attention."
He dipped his stylus in ink and wrote a short instruction on a fresh leaf for Subbayya:
"Watch such strangers, but do not provoke. Count how many there are, where they stay, which temples they visit. Our land's old bones should not be dug without us knowing which hands hold the shovel."
✵ VII. Southward Stories and a Whisper of Future Legends
From the south, the troupe of storytellers returned after months on the road.
They sang songs of crowded temple fairs, of narrow streets smelling of jasmine and sweat, of priests who argued about rituals.
But in quieter talk with Narasimha, they added more.
"In some Tamil towns," the troupe leader said, "we heard stories of a strange… wandering priest-warrior. One who speaks of light within the body and cosmic balance with fire in his eyes. Some call him Akhanda Swami, others mutter different names. He breaks a few goons, cures a few sick people, then moves on."
Narasimha's eyes sharpened.
"Not fraud?" he asked. "Real?"
"As real as hunger," the leader replied. "Whatever… power he uses, it is not simple trick. Some believe he's touched by Lord Shiva himself. Others whisper he fights things not visible to ordinary eyes."
Parallels flickered in Narasimha's mind:
The mahants and mystic warriors of their own tradition.
The kind of spiritual-power figures that would, in another era, become like the protagonists of films such as Akhanda.
He smiled faintly.
"So, while British think they rule with rifles," he said, "our land quietly grows saints who punch ghosts. Good."
"Shall we try to contact him for you?" the troupe leader asked, half-joking.
"Not yet," Narasimha said. "Let him do his work. If our paths must cross, dharma will bring him. For now, just keep listening. If you hear of any man whose powers sound… beyond local understanding, note him. One day, such people may be comrades."
In another timeline, such mystic warriors would fight demons and dark entities parallel to Marvel's sorcerers.
In this merged reality, they were all part of the same deep tapestry.
Trinetra was starting to trace their outlines.
❖ VIII. Heaven Watches the Web Touch New Currents
In Vaikuntha, the floor-map Narasimha had drawn was reflected as glowing lines.
Each new connection, each new name, lit up faintly: Mysore guilds, Hyderabad nobles, coastal mystics, Tamil warrior-saints.
Lakshmi watched, eyes bright.
"Do you see?" she said. "From one estate to half a subcontinent. And he still hasn't inherited the throne formally."
Saraswati tilted her head thoughtfully.
"He thinks in flows," she observed. "Trade, information, faith, tension. He is beginning to see how when one tightens, others slacken."
Parvati sighed softly.
"And when more ropes are tied to his hands," she murmured, "the more careful he must be not to strangle himself with them."
Maheshwara's third eye remained closed, but his awareness touched the map.
"He is unconsciously preparing for an age when global currents will be as real to him as these Indian ones," he said. "When ships will fly and men in armour will fight above cities. He will not be surprised then. This is training."
Vishnu's lips curved.
"And those gentlemen in coats across the sea," he said, "who think they are the first to build 'intelligence services'… they will one day discover that in a drought-struck corner of Bharat, a lion boy was running a more dharmic version before their grandfathers learned to drink tea properly."
Brahma wrote in flowing script:
Hidden Expansion begins – Bharat's inner web touches outer world's future storms.
✢ IX. The Weight of a Wider World
Of course, wider reach meant heavier weight.
One evening, as reports from four directions piled up on his mat, Narasimha felt something he hated feeling:
Overwhelm.
A merchant whose contact in Mysore had been undercut by British cloth.
A grain route near Hyderabad where a new toll demanded by a petty officer threatened to cut margins.
A temple town in Tamil land where Company men were trying to "regulate" festivals.
A coastal rumour about a strange artefact washed ashore and quickly "collected" by some foreign-tongued men.
Four problems.
Four directions.
One head.
He pressed his fingers into his brow.
"I need… three more brains," he muttered.
"That's greedy," his mother said, entering with a tray of food. "Eat with the one God gave first."
He looked up, startled, then relaxed.
She placed the tray down, sat beside him.
"These," she said gently, gesturing to the palm leaves, "are important. I know. But remember: if you fall sick, all this falls. Even lions need rest."
He gave a weak, crooked smile.
"Lions in stories," he said. "In reality, they get ticks in their fur and limp on bad days."
She smacked his arm lightly.
"Eat," she insisted.
He did.
Between mouthfuls, he spoke quietly.
"Amma," he said, "when I was small, if I did not act, maybe one village suffered. Now, if I pause too long, a guild in Mysore gets crushed, a trader near Hyderabad is robbed, a saint in the south is targeted, an artefact at the coast falls into wrong hands. How do I know where to move first?"
She listened.
She thought a moment.
"Who else can move, if you do not?" she asked back.
He blinked.
"What?"
"Look at each problem," she said, picking up a palm leaf. "Here—Mysore trick. Is there someone there already loyal enough and clever enough to decide without you? If yes, write them a small guideline and let them handle it. Do not hold every fire in your own hands. You will burn."
She picked another.
"Hyderabad toll," she continued. "This may need your direct thinking now—you know the balance of trade there. So keep it."
The next.
"Festival regulation," she said. "Our storyteller friend knows local customs better. Give him authority to nudge the right local headmen. Don't micromanage from here."
And the last.
"Artefact on shore," she murmured. "For now, just mark it. Ask Subbayya to observe quietly. Not every new story needs immediate leap. Some need silent watching."
She smiled.
"See?" she said. "Some problems you delegate, some you design, some you delay. You are not alone unless you choose to be."
He stared at her.
"That is…" he began, "actually… very good strategy."
She sniffed.
"Of course," she said. "You think your brain came from only your father's side?"
He laughed, truly, for the first time that day.
❖ X. From "Me" to "We"
Her simple classification became another quiet law in Trinetra.
At the next council, Narasimha shared it.
"Not all fires belong in my hands," he said plainly. "From now, when you bring a problem, also tell me: who could handle this locally if given a little support? Who can be the 'small chief' there?"
They began identifying:
a clever widow who managed grain loans fairly in one red-zone village—she became Trinetra's anchor there;
a caravan leader on the Mysore side who had a talent for reading people's greed—he became empowered to negotiate certain deals without waiting for Uyyalawada's approval;
a senior priest in a Tamil town who quietly disliked Company interference—he became point of contact for spiritual-political issues.
Trinetra stopped being "Narasimha and his messengers" and started becoming a distributed mind.
Not perfect.
Not foolproof.
But increasingly resilient.
✶ XI. The Lion's Growing Shadow
By the end of his thirteenth year, word had spread in subtle, layered ways:
In Mysore:
"There is a source from the south whose cloth is good and prices fair. No matter what storms hit, their bales arrive."
Near Hyderabad:
"Some southern boy's house pays its debts on time and somehow knows tax changes before they are announced."
On the coast:
"The Uyyalawada people ask strange questions about ships and ruins—but they don't cheat in weights."
In Tamil towns:
"A Rayalaseema heir sends gifts to temples and listens when storytellers speak of injustice. He hasn't even worn a formal crown yet."
The British did not yet call him a rebel.
The Nizam did not yet mark him as a threat.
The kings farther south might have heard his name only once in passing.
But on the ground, among traders, priests, port-men, and performers, a pattern formed:
"When trouble grows, look toward Rayalaseema. There, someone is already thinking about it."
That thought, small and wordless, travelled faster than any official decree.
✵ XII. Closing of "Hidden Rivers Beneath the Land"
On a quiet night, back in Uyyalawada, Narasimha stood alone over his floor-map.
He had added more lines.
More dots.
More small symbols.
The map no longer showed just where things were.
It showed how they moved.
He knelt, pressed his palm against the central circle.
"Trinetra," he whispered, "third eye of my land—see clearly. And don't let me use you to crush those who trust me."
He felt the familiar, steady warmth in his chest.
Immortality.
Responsibility.
Annoying paperwork.
All humming together.
In the distance, thunder murmured.
This time, it sounded promising.
He smiled faintly.
"Come properly this year, will you?" he told the clouds. "I'm building an empire here. I don't have time to negotiate with drought at every step."
From somewhere higher, the gods watched and smiled.
Below, invisible rivers of grain, cloth, coin, stories, and secrets flowed beneath Bharat's surface—
and at their unseen confluence sat a thirteen-year-old boy,
half complaining,
half planning,
wholly committed—
who would, in a century's time, be one of the few beings on Earth not surprised when Marvel's age finally crashed down.
He had been preparing the land long before the heroes arrived.
✦ End of Chapter 13 – "Hidden Rivers Beneath the Land" ✦