✵ I. The Day a Necklace Broke His Patience
It began with a necklace.
Not a royal one—no diamonds, no rare rubies.
Just a simple gold mangalsutra, black beads worn dull by years of sweat and sun, hanging from the neck of a woman in a faded sari.
Narasimha saw her at the edge of the courtyard, standing with the reluctant posture of someone who needs help but hates asking.
He was fourteen now.
Taller.
Lean-muscled from dawn training.
Eyes sharper, with the faint, constant hum of Ichha-Marana at the core of his being.
He had just finished arguing with a scribe about one missing palm leaf when Ramu nudged him.
"Look," he said quietly.
The woman held her necklace in both hands, fingers trembling, as if the gold might burn her.
A guard tried to wave her away.
"Today is for land affairs," the guard said. "Come when the revenue clerk is free."
"Let her come," Narasimha said.
His voice stayed calm.
The guard stepped aside.
She approached, bowed low.
"Dora," she said, voice rough. "Forgive me. I… did not know who else to come to."
He motioned for a stool.
"Sit, Akka," he said. "Tell me."
She remained standing.
"My husband died three years ago," she said. "Two sons. One daughter. Last year's rains were kind. This year… not so kind. I fell behind in tax. I went to the moneylender for loan. I thought I could repay after harvest. But he…"
She swallowed.
"He says—interest grew. I paid what I could. Still he says I owe. Now he tells me that if I do not give this"—she lifted the mangalsutra—"by tomorrow, he will take my small piece of land. Dora, that land is all we have. Without it, we either starve or go as labour to those who will not treat us as people."
Ramu's jaw clenched.
Narasimha's hands tightened on the table.
"Did you sign anything?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Only words. He keeps his own book. I only keep fear."
"Who is he?" Narasimha asked.
She named a man from a nearby town.
The name was familiar.
Trinetra had seen him already:
moderate moneylender,
clever,
not as openly predatory as Sattanayaka,
but very good at squeezing extra from the vulnerable.
"We can… deal with him," Ramu muttered under his breath, already thinking of Chhaya Mandal.
Narasimha shook his head lightly.
"Later," he replied quietly.
To the woman, he said,
"Keep your necklace."
He signalled to a clerk.
"Give her the amount she needs to clear this year's dues," he said. "Write it in my personal expenditure… under 'headache prevention'."
The woman's face crumpled.
Tears spilled.
She tried to fall at his feet.
He stepped back hurriedly, embarrassed.
"Enough, enough," he said. "Next time, come before the snake coils around your neck."
She nodded, stammered blessings, and left clutching both necklace and coin.
The courtyard slowly returned to normal.
But something in him did not.
He stared at the doorway where she'd disappeared.
"She is one," he said quietly. "How many others are there? Quietly giving away their future for lack of a safe place to fall?"
Ramu scratched his beard.
"We can't pay everyone's debts by hand," he said. "Your coin has limits. And half the time, people feel shame to come to you until it's too late."
"I know," Narasimha said.
He looked at the ledgers.
At Trinetra's reports.
At his own ink-stained fingers.
"What we need," he murmured, "is not to play saviour one by one. We need to… rewrite the rules of money in this land."
❖ II. Lakshmi's Domain Demands Respect
That night, as lamps flickered low, he sat in the inner hall with his father, mother, and a few elders.
On the floor lay three things:
a small heap of grain,
a handful of coins,
and that morning's report from Trinetra about rising debt in nearby villages.
He placed the mangalsutra-shaped memory among them in his mind.
"We have fixed some individual problems," he began. "We've forced a few snakes to loosen their coil. But the ground itself… is uneven. People with little savings have nowhere safe to keep them. When drought or sickness comes, they are naked in front of moneylenders."
An elder shrugged.
"That is how it has always been," he said. "Those who have give loans. Those who don't, bow."
Narasimha's gaze sharpened.
"And in Kaliyuga, we do not have the luxury of 'always'," he said. "British coin wants people in debt. It binds them to company work. Our job is to weaken that chain, not strengthen it."
His mother looked at the grain, then at him.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
He took a breath.
"We need a… hidden bank," he said.
The word sounded strange in that hall.
"Bank?" an elder repeated, frowning. "Those English ideas? Paper and interest and cheating in bigger rooms?"
"Not their kind," Narasimha said quickly. "Ours. Dharmic. Built from what we already understand: grain, gold, promises. Formalized, protected, and watched by Trinetra."
He drew three circles on the floor.
"Three main pots," he said.
"First: Suraksha Kothi – the Safety Chest. A place where people can deposit their savings—coins, small jewellery, even grain—and know it is safe from theft or extortion. We give them written proof. Trinetra vouches that no 'accidental changes' happen in our ledgers."
"Second: Beej Nidhi – Seed Fund. From combined savings, we lend small amounts to those in temporary need—like that widow. Fair interest, clearly explained, without crooked tongues. Payable after harvest over time."
"Third: Varsha Nidhi – Rain Fund. A form of… crop insurance. Each year, farmers contribute a small amount of grain after harvest into a common pool. If next year's rains fail, those hit hardest can draw from this pool, not from a moneylender's trap."
The elders stared.
One scratched his head.
"You want people to give grain… when they are not yet starving… to protect themselves later?" he asked skeptically. "They will call you mad."
"Yes," Narasimha said. "Until the first drought where those who contributed can still eat while others beg. Then they will call it 'common sense'."
His father's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"You are talking of building something bigger than any one house," he said. "Like… a protective net underneath many lives at once."
Narasimha nodded.
"Exactly," he said. "If we control only land, we are at mercy of sky. If we control credit and safety, we begin to shape the flow of power itself. And we do it in a way that strengthens, not crushes."
An elder raised a cautious hand.
"And the gods?" he asked. "You are stepping into Lakshmi Devi's domain. Money is not just numbers. It has temper. If you mishandle it, it leaves."
Narasimha's expression softened.
"That is why," he said slowly, "we should build this system… in front of her, not behind."
He looked at his parents.
"I want the heart of this 'bank' to be at the temple," he said. "Not as some greedy priest's stash. As a publicly known, tightly monitored, dharmic treasury. Let the goddess watch our hands while we handle her coin."
His mother smiled faintly.
"That," she said, "Lakshmi will approve more than hidden gold in back rooms."
His father nodded, decision settling.
"Call it what you wish," he said. "Suraksha Kothi, Beej Nidhi, Varsha Nidhi. But remember this: people trust gold they can touch more than marks on your leaves. You must show them, not just tell."
Narasimha's lips curved.
"Oh, I intend to," he said. "Spectacle is also a tool."
✢ III. Vaikuntha's Banker Smiles
In Vaikuntha, Lakshmi Devi watched her child talk of safety chests and seed funds.
Her eyes shone.
"See?" she said, turning to Vishnu. "He is finally building something properly in my lane."
Vishnu chuckled.
"He has always respected you, Devi," he said. "He just showed it more in how he gives than how he stores."
Saraswati nodded approvingly.
"Banking, when done rightly, is simply organized trust," she observed. "He is trying to formalize what used to be left to mood and gossip."
Parvati smiled warmly.
"And he is doing it to protect widows and farmers, not just fill his treasury," she said. "That matters."
Maheshwara's voice was calm.
"Money is also a weapon," he reminded. "Let him learn to wield it before those foreign men with ledgers and contracts tie this land in paper no sword can cut."
Brahma wrote with obvious satisfaction:
Age 14 – Financial dharma awakened. Hidden Bank concept born.
Lakshmi clasped her hands.
"If he builds this well," she said softly, "then even in the age of stock markets and Stark towers, Bharat will have at least one ancient lion who understands wealth beyond numbers on a screen."
❖ IV. The Temple Becomes a Treasury
The next step was choosing where.
Not the main house.
That would make it seem like the Uyyalawada family owned everyone's savings.
Too risky.
Too easy for rumours.
Instead, Narasimha chose the oldest temple in the central village—small, stone-built, not ostentatious.
It had:
thick walls,
a simple sanctum,
a small mandapa,
and, importantly, a side chamber that had long been used to store ritual vessels and temple records.
"We clear this room," he said to the startled priest. "We reinforce its door, its hinges. We place heavy chests inside—one for Suraksha deposits, one for Varsha grain receipts, one for ledgers."
The priest sputtered.
"Dora, this is temple property—" he began.
"Exactly," Narasimha said. "Who will rob Lakshmi under Lakshmi's own nose? And even if they try, Chhaya Mandal will know before their shadow finishes turning."
The priest considered.
He also considered:
the nights he had lain awake worrying about thieves,
the growing number of people approaching him to "keep safe" small ornaments,
the stress of being "god's treasurer" without an actual system.
Slowly, he nodded.
"If done cleanly, with full record," he said, "this may be good. But I will not accept even one broken promise in front of the deity."
"Nor will I," Narasimha said.
He brought carpenters and blacksmiths.
They installed thick wooden chests with iron bands, each bolted into stone.
He arranged for:
two keys to each chest,
one held by the temple priest,
one held by a trusted Uyyalawada clerk.
"No chest opens for deposit or withdrawal unless both are present," he declared. "And every movement is written in duplicate: one copy for temple, one for us. If ever one record is tampered, the mismatch shows."
He also ordered a separate grain store next to the temple compound—small, elevated, with locked doors.
"This," he announced, "is Varsha Nidhi Kothi. After harvest, each farmer who wishes to join gives a measured share. In exchange, his name goes into the Varsha ledger. If next year his crop fails beyond a certain point, we release grain to him first from this pool."
People listened.
Some nodded.
Many frowned.
"Why give grain away when we already barely have?" one man muttered. "This feels like tying your stomach to a cloud."
"Because clouds can be late," Narasimha replied. "But we do not have to be."
✢ V. Explaining Insurance with Buckets and Bullocks
To explain Varsha Nidhi, he knew he couldn't use fancy words.
So he called a gathering in front of the temple.
Laid out in front of him were:
three empty buckets,
a pot of water,
and a small pile of stones.
People gathered—farmers, traders, women with children on hips, curious boys.
He lifted a bucket.
"This," he said, "is one farmer's house. This pot of water is his grain. A good harvest fills him."
He poured water in until the first bucket was half full.
He lifted the second.
"This is another farmer. Maybe his field isn't so good this year."
He poured less.
The third stayed empty.
"This one," he said, "is the unlucky one. No rain, pests, illness at home… his bucket stays dry."
He paused.
"In old times," he continued, "some might have helped him with charity. Others might shrug, saying 'karma'. Moneylenders would come with friendly smiles and big teeth."
He set the pot down.
"Varsha Nidhi says: what if, when times are good, everyone pours a small cup from their own full bucket into one big pot?"
He picked up a larger container, poured a little from the first two buckets into it.
"Not so much that they become empty," he said. "Just a little. Now…" He tipped the combined water from the big pot into the third bucket.
"Even the unlucky one gets some water," he said. "Not feast, but enough so children do not sleep on empty stomach."
He looked around.
"If you don't join," he said plainly, "in a bad year, you stand alone. If you do join, then when fate hits you, the group you helped will help you back. You know this already in your bones—this is what community used to do informally. I am just writing it down, measuring it properly, guarding it so no snake drinks from the pot."
An old farmer raised his staff.
"And what if some man eats from Varsha Nidhi even when his crop did well?" he demanded. "Liars exist."
Narasimha smiled crookedly.
"Then Trinetra will know," he said. "We have eyes in many fields. And we keep simple rules: anyone caught cheating the Varsha pool will be barred for three years and publicly named at the temple gate."
Murmurs.
Shame as punishment.
Effective.
Slowly, hands began to rise.
"I will put one sack," someone said.
"I, two measures," another added.
The beginning was small.
It was enough.
❖ VI. Suraksha Kothi – Where Gold Learns to Sleep
The second pillar, Suraksha Kothi, needed a different approach.
People hoarded:
coins under hearth stones,
necklaces in clay pots,
bangles in rafters.
Every theft was a story.
Every fire a loss.
He began with something dramatic.
On a declared day, in broad daylight, he walked to the temple with his own small chest.
Not the main house treasury.
His personal portion—what he had received as gifts over years and what his mother had quietly kept aside for him.
Behind him walked Uyyalawada guards—not in full war gear, but visibly present.
Villagers watched as the chieftain's heir knelt in front of the sanctum.
"Devi Lakshmi," he said aloud, "you know how much I dislike counting coins. But I dislike seeing my people lose theirs even more. Today, I bring my own reserved wealth into this Suraksha Kothi. I will keep only what daily life needs in my house. The rest, I entrust here—in front of everyone, with full record."
The priest recited mantras as the chest was placed inside the reinforced room.
A scribe sat nearby, writing:
"On this Tithi, under this Nakshatra, Narasimha Reddy places X coins and Y weight of gold in Suraksha Kothi."
A duplicate record was made for the Uyyalawada archive.
Narasimha turned to the crowd.
"If I trust this place with my future," he said, "you can trust it with yours. If ever we break this trust, you may come to my door and throw stones."
His boldness shocked them.
His mother, watching from the side, winced affectionately.
"Why must he always invite stones?" she muttered.
But the effect was as planned.
Within weeks, cautious villagers approached.
Not rich ones first.
Those who:
feared drunken husbands might pawn jewellery,
worried about thieves watching their huts,
had a few coins saved and nowhere safe to put them.
They deposited:
a necklace here,
a pair of bangles there,
a small pouch of copper coins.
They got, in return:
a simple palm-leaf receipt,
with name, item description, rough weight estimate,
two seals: temple and Uyyalawada.
"Without this leaf, no one can claim your deposit," Narasimha told them. "Keep it safe. If it burns, we still have copies, but it will be trouble. And if anyone—anyone, even a relative—comes with your ornament and no matching leaf, we will not release it."
Chhaya Mandal's ears listened in the background.
If any rumour arose of someone trying to forge such receipts, the shadows would move.
They did not have to—yet.
The reputation of the room, its chests, and the boy who had placed his own wealth there first did much of the work.
Suraksha Kothi slowly filled.
✢ VII. Beej Nidhi – Loans Without Fangs
The third pillar, Beej Nidhi, grew more quietly.
It was seeded with:
a portion of temple surplus,
some of Uyyalawada's trade profit,
and voluntary contributions from better-off traders who saw benefit in stabilizing their customer base.
"Explain again," a skeptical merchant insisted. "Why should I put coin in this common Seed Fund instead of keeping it with me and lending at high interest?"
"Because," Narasimha said patiently, "your high interest kills your own customers. If they drown in debt, they cannot buy your cloth or grain later. Beej Nidhi lends at moderate, fixed interest, with flexible repayments. We keep people on their feet so they can keep buying from you for years."
He added, with a half-smile,
"Also, if you join Beej Nidhi, we will direct more of our estate purchases toward your shop. Loyal investors get reliable business."
The merchant rubbed his chin.
"Hmm," he said. "So, slightly less sharp teeth… but longer, steadier chewing."
"Beautifully put," Narasimha said dryly. "Yes."
They agreed.
Beej Nidhi gave its first formal loans to:
a weaver whose loom had broken just before the season,
a farmer whose bullock had died unexpectedly,
a small salt trader whose boat needed repair.
Loans were modest.
Repayment schedules were realistic.
When one man fell behind due to illness, Beej Nidhi adjusted.
"You don't punish a seed for bad weather," Narasimha told the Beej council. "You give it one more season."
The council now existed:
A small group including:
the temple priest,
a respected village elder,
a woman representative from the market,
and a Uyyalawada scribe.
Loans up to a certain size could be approved by them without Narasimha's direct presence.
He still reviewed summaries.
He still kept his hand on the pulse.
But he did not, as his mother had advised, hold every fire alone.
❖ VIII. The British Smell Stability
Months later, in Madras, Edward Cavendish flipped through the latest reports from interior officers.
He frowned at a set of numbers.
"Interesting," he murmured.
"Hmm?" his colleague asked, sipping tea.
"Revenue from Uyyalawada cluster and surrounding taluks," Edward said slowly. "Despite partial drought, tax collection remained remarkably steady. Fewer reports of 'disturbance' or late payments. Adjacent regions show more unrest."
His colleague shrugged.
"Good for us," he said. "One less headache. Perhaps their villagers are more obedient."
Edward's brow stayed furrowed.
"Or perhaps," he said, "someone there is… buffering the shocks."
He scanned a line in a footnote:
"Local grain holders maintained reserves and seem to have some informal cooperative systems."
"Cooperative systems," he repeated. "In rural Bharat. Without our guidance."
He leaned back.
"Write a note to that junior official who visited them last year," he said finally. "Ask whether he observed any unusual local treasury practices. Temples, chieftain's granaries, that sort of thing."
The colleague rolled his eyes.
"You and your obsession," he said. "Fine."
He did not understand that this "obsession" would, generations later, become the seed of British curiosity in native financial networks—curiosity that would, in another century, intersect with proto-Kingsman intelligence channels.
For now, it was just one man's interest in one inland lion's clever handling of scarcity.
✵ IX. Heaven Watches the First Balance Sheet
In Uyyalawada, Narasimha sat cross-legged, surrounded by palm leaves.
This time, they were not just reports of rain or raiders.
They were accounts.
On one set:
Varsha Nidhi contributions and releases,
Suraksha Kothi deposits and withdrawals,
Beej Nidhi loans and repayments.
On another:
subtle notes from Trinetra about how these systems affected behaviour:
fewer desperate pawnings to external moneylenders,
fewer stories of children pulled out of fields to work off debt,
more farmers experimenting with slightly better seeds because they knew a safety net existed.
He rubbed his eyes.
"This," he muttered, "is like fighting a battle made of numbers."
Ramu walked in.
"How goes the war?" he asked.
"We won one hill," Narasimha said. "Now we must defend it against cheating, laziness, and my own boredom."
He tapped the Varsha leaf.
"In two villages, contributors tried to under-report their harvest to get more grain out," he said. "Trinetra caught them. Next year, they will be under stricter watch."
He pointed at Suraksha records.
"One family panicked when their receipt went missing," he continued. "We still had temple copy. We confirmed identity carefully, returned their gold. Now their whole street trusts us more."
He flicked Beej Nidhi summaries.
"A farmer repaid his loan ahead of time and, in public, said that without it he would have lost his bullocks," he said. "Others are now asking how to qualify."
Ramu whistled.
"So," he said, "you are banker now also. Wonderful. When will you start taking fee for consultations?"
"I will take it in the form of not watching my people die in the next drought," Narasimha replied.
He leaned back, stretching.
"Trinetra sees," he said softly. "Chhaya Mandal touches. Now Suraksha, Varsha, and Beej hold. Invisible hands beneath many feet."
He smiled faintly.
"One day," he murmured, "when bombs fall and aliens walk, people will still need safe places for their money and food. At least here, on this patch of earth, the system will already know how to bend, not break."
Ramu squinted.
"Bombs?" he repeated. "Aliens?"
Narasimha blinked.
"Never mind," he said quickly. "Too much reading of strange stories from travellers. Focus on today. Today, we fight petty greed and bad harvests. Tomorrow's madness can wait."
❖ X. The Gods Talk Interest Rates
Back above, in the golden quiet of Vaikuntha, the six watched Uyyalawada's financial web glow softly.
Lakshmi smiled in full, unrestrained pride now.
"This," she said, "is my kind of war."
Parvati raised an eyebrow.
"Your kind?" she teased.
"Of course," Lakshmi replied. "He is doing what wealth should do: circulate, protect, uplift. Not stagnate in one man's chest like a miser's breath."
Saraswati added,
"And he is educating them in the process," she said. "Explaining risk-sharing, delayed reward, and trust. They will not call it 'economics', but it is exactly that."
Maheshwara nodded.
"Notice how he designs these systems before becoming king," he observed. "So that when he later expands his rule, the skeleton of his empire is already in place. Grain will move along the same paths as future weapons; trust will precede armies."
Vishnu's eyes turned faintly mischievous.
"After all this," he said, "imagine his reaction when Stark Industries and Wakandan outreach programs appear centuries later, talking about 'financial instruments' and 'global funds'."
Lakshmi laughed.
"He will probably sigh," she said. "And open his old palm-leaf box labeled 'Varsha Nidhi' and say, 'Come, children, see how we did it when rains themselves were enemies.'"
Brahma underlined his earlier note:
Hidden Bank of the South established: Suraksha Kothi, Beej Nidhi, Varsha Nidhi. Structural dharmic finance.
✢ XI. The Lion Complains Like a Clerk
That night, alone with his leaves, Narasimha dropped his stylus and flopped back onto his mat with a dramatic groan.
"I did not sign up for this," he informed the ceiling.
The ceiling said nothing.
"When I was born," he continued, "you all gave me dreams of battles, cosmic duties, mystical weapons, and immortality. Not… balancing grain contributions and explaining compound interest to suspicious uncles."
He rolled onto his side.
"…although," he admitted grudgingly, "if this works, it will probably save more lives than any sword swing."
He dragged himself upright again.
Added one more line to the Beej Nidhi guideline:
"No loan for gambling, luxury feasts, or dowry beyond reasonable capacity. We do not finance foolishness."
He chewed the end of his stylus.
"And so," he muttered, "the immortal lion of Bharat spends his evening preventing idiot brothers-in-law from using dharmic funds to buy extra gold for showing off at weddings. Truly, gods, you have a sense of humour."
Somewhere above, Vishnu's smile widened.
"We do," he agreed quietly.
✶ XII. Closing of "The Hidden Bank of the South"
By the time Narasimha neared fifteen, several quiet revolutions had settled into routine:
Varsha Nidhi meant that when rains faltered, not all eyes turned instantly to moneylenders. Some turned to the temple granary first.
Suraksha Kothi meant fewer stories of stolen wedding jewellery and many more of women sleeping easier.
Beej Nidhi meant tools repaired, bullocks replaced, and weavers' looms humming when they otherwise might have fallen silent.
None of this made headlines.
There were no heralds shouting in bazaars:
"Come see the Great Banking Innovations of Uyyalawada!"
But in the slow, quiet tally of who lives, who holds land, who gets crushed, the difference began to show.
Trinetra watched these flows.
Chhaya Mandal guarded against those who tried to twist them.
The temple stood at the heart—a stone body for a soft idea: shared safety.
And at the centre of it all, a fourteen-year-old boy with ancient eyes:
who roared like a lion when facing injustice,
who wept internally at the sight of new ledger stacks,
who wanted nothing more, on some days, than to be a village uncle arguing about mango pickle recipes instead of trying to out-think an Empire—
continued to build, thread by thread, the invisible skeleton of an order that would outlast storms, wars, and the eventual arrival of super-soldiers and gods from other skies.
For now, no one called it a "banking system".
They just called it:
"Uyyalawada's way.
Here, when trouble comes,
you don't fall alone."
The Deathless Lion had quietly added a new power to his arsenal:
Not just fists, not just spies.
But the most underestimated weapon of all—
stability.
✦ End of Chapter 15 – "The Hidden Bank of the South" ✦