✦ Cast Update – The Lion's Household
Before we step into 1822, here are the key names in Narasimha's world:
Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy – our MC, the "Deathless Lion". Family pet names: Simha / Narsi.
Uyyalawada Ramachandra Reddy – his father, current Chieftain of Uyyalawada. Everyone calls him Ramu Dora or just Ramu in private.
Uyyalawada Lakshmamma – his mother, calm, sharp, temple-centred, the emotional anchor of the estate.
Uyyalawada Seethamma – his paternal grandmother, called Avva by everyone. Fierce tongue, soft heart. The old lioness of the house.
Pedda Hanumantha Reddy – the principal elder, called Pedda Thatha ("great-grandfather") by affection. Senior advisor, keeper of customs.
Sri – widow-turned-shadow operative, core of Chhaya Mandal and Nisha-Prahari.
Devudu – ex-bandit turned loyal blade of the shadows.
Raghava – unremarkable face, unforgettable stealth.
Ayyappa – ex-sepoy, soldier's discipline, quiet conscience.
These are the ones closest to Narasimha as 1822 begins.
✵ I. 1822 – When Word Outran Banners
By the start of 1822, Narasimha had not yet worn a crown.
On paper, he was still:
the heir,
the dutiful son,
the boy who took notes in council and bowed when elders spoke.
But the world had already begun to behave as if he were more.
Caravan leaders spoke of him:
"If Uyyalawada's boy signs on a deal, the goods reach. Thieves vanish. Routes stay open."
Village women spoke of him:
"If the boy Dora hears your trouble, he will listen first, scold later. He doesn't look through you like other lords."
Some minor chiefs, half-envious, half-impressed, muttered:
"That lad is building something. Trade, granaries, spies… and now even British officers write 'Low Threat'. Hah. The most dangerous ones are always 'low threat.'"
Of course, they didn't say that part out loud.
But they felt it.
And word travelled.
Across dusty roads, through crowded bazaars, in letters carried by scribes whose ink told more than they were paid for.
The ripple from his small estate had begun to touch other princes.
Which meant, inevitably:
Princes would come to test him.
❖ II. Avva's Diagnosis: "You Think Too Far"
Narasimha sat on the veranda floor, half-bent over three palm leaves and a cup of half-cold buttermilk.
The leaves showed:
Trinetra reports from the north-west,
Suraksha deposits rising in two new villages,
and a note about a minor chief in Yemmiganur suddenly taking interest in Uyyalawada's trade terms.
His mind danced ahead:
If that chief partners with us, we can push secure routes further; if he betrays us, his lands become a blind spot…
A shadow fell across the leaf.
He looked up.
Uyyalawada Seethamma—Avva—stood there with her walking stick, her eyes as sharp as they'd been thirty years earlier.
"Simha," she said.
He straightened.
"Yes, Avva?"
She thumped the stick once.
"Do you know what year it is?" she asked.
"Eighteen hundred and twenty-two," he said automatically.
"And how old are you?" she continued.
"Sixteen," he said. "Seventeen soon, if by—"
She cut him off with another thump.
"Then why," she demanded, "do you sit like a sixty-year-old merchant worrying about distances to Lahore and Lanka? How many heads do you plan to grow to wear all these crowns you pick up in your mind?"
He blinked.
"Avva, these aren't crowns, they're—"
"They are burdens," she said. "One crown, many burdens. You are already carrying more than your father did at your age. Good. Necessary, perhaps. But don't start walking like a bent tree before your time."
She huffed and lowered herself to sit beside him.
"Your grandfather," she said, her voice softening, "used to say: 'A chief who knows only his own street will lose his land. A chief who knows only other people's streets will lose his home.' You must stand between those two."
He glanced at her.
"I am trying," he said quietly. "I… feel the world tugging. British from one side. Local snakes from another. Drought from above, greed from below. If I don't think ahead, we will get crushed between wheels we didn't even see."
She watched his face; the lines of focus beyond his years.
"You are my lion," she said. "But even a lion must sometimes lie in the sun and pretend to be a lazy cat. Else his claws never get to rest."
He consoled her with a small smile.
"I do rest," he said. "Sometimes I sleep two whole hours."
She whacked his arm lightly with the stick.
"Idiot," she muttered. "At least complain properly. Saying such things will make gods think you like this madness and give you more."
He winced.
"Please don't say that loudly, Avva," he said. "They listen."
She shook her head, but the fondness in her eyes deepened.
"Today an envoy came from Kurnool," she said casually. "A cousin-prince of the Nawab, they say. With gifts. And questions."
He stiffened.
"They want trade?" he asked.
"They want to see you," she corrected. "Your father is sending for you once you finish your latest lover here."
She tapped the palm leaves with her stick.
He sighed.
"My only serious, long-term relationship," he said. "Me and these blasted records."
She patted his shoulder once, firmly.
"Go," she said. "Remember: with elders, be king. With the British, be harmless. With your own people, be yourself. With other princes… be whatever scares them into behaving."
He grinned.
"Yes, Avva."
He rose, rolled his shoulders, and let his posture shift from tired clerk to quiet ruler.
Behind him, Seethamma watched.
"Grow, Simha," she murmured. "But do not grow alone."
✢ III. A Prince from Kurnool
In the inner audience hall, Ramu Ramachandra Reddy—his father—sat on the low throne, simple but dignified.
Beside him, slightly behind, Narasimha took his place.
A man in fine but travel-worn clothes stood opposite them:
Sharp features, neatly kept beard, rings that told of wealth but not waste.
This was Rashid Khan Nawabzada—a cousin to the Nawab of Kurnool, sent "to observe the affairs of Uyyalawada."
He bowed with courteous reserve.
"Ramu Dora," Rashid said in fluent Telugu laced with Dakkani Urdu. "Your hospitality honours us."
"Your visit honours us," Ramu replied. "We have heard of Kurnool's strength and discipline."
Formalities exchanged, their words arrived where all such conversations did eventually:
Trade.
Security.
Influence.
"I have heard," Rashid said, "that caravans under your mark are seldom robbed. That your Varsha grain stores kept your people from starving last year when clouds misbehaved. That even certain Company officers prefer dealing with your scribes because your numbers do not… slip."
His eyes slid to Narasimha.
"And I have heard," he added, "that much of this is due to your son."
"Exaggerations," Ramu said lightly. "The boy counts what we tell him to count."
Narasimha kept his expression mild.
"My only true skill," he said, "is spending long hours with ledgers without running away."
Rashid's gaze lingered.
There was curiosity there.
And a hint of challenge.
"In Kurnool," he said, "we also try to keep accounts steady. But the world grows… noisy. Dacoits, foreign goods, shifting loyalties. The Nawab is willing to patronize those who can provide reliable corridors—paths where soldiers and goods both move safely."
Ramu nodded.
"We have some such paths," he said. "We use them carefully."
Rashid smiled.
"I would like to hear more," he said. "Perhaps from the one who spends long hours with your maps."
Ah.
There it was.
The real meeting.
❖ IV. Princes in the Back Room
Protocol shifted.
Soon, they were in a smaller chamber:
maps spread on a low table,
guards at a respectful distance,
Rashid, Ramu, Narasimha, and Pedda Hanumantha Reddy as silent observer.
Rashid traced the routes with a ringed finger.
"These paths," he said, "link your lands to the ports. Salt, cloth, steel… profitable lines. There, you connect eastwards. Here"—he tapped a route toward the north-west—"you already lean in the direction of Hyderabad and the Deccan. You are quietly building yourself a spine across the south."
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"Spine is a strong word for a boy's scribbles," he said.
Rashid chuckled.
"You remind me of a man I met in Hyderabad," he said. "He pretended his new garden was for 'personal pleasure,' while every path and wall in it was placed to funnel wind and sound in certain ways. Later, when nobles met there, he could overhear everything from one corner."
He glanced at Narasimha.
"I do not fear men who brag," he said. "I fear polite boys with maps."
Pedda Hanumantha's lip twitched.
Ramu stayed carefully neutral, letting his son answer.
"I have no wish to make Kurnool fear us," Narasimha said calmly. "But I do wish for predictable neighbours. Men whose actions I can calculate. Chaos is expensive."
"On that, we agree," Rashid said. "So let me speak openly."
He leaned forward.
"Company roads are improving," he said. "But they are also… monitored. Troops move quickly where they have laid stone. But so does information. The Nawab wishes to cultivate alternate corridors—routes that can move messages and perhaps soldiers before the Company realizes how fast."
Narasimha listened, mind already overlaying Trinetra's silent web on the map.
"You want corridors not on British maps," he said. "Paths that seem like grain routes but can become troop roads in emergency. You want to know if my… scribbles can support that."
Rashid smiled.
"Yes," he said. "And what price you would ask."
Ramu shot his son a warning glance.
Careful. Don't overreach.
Narasimha folded his hands.
"I will not sell routes for coin alone," he said. "Trade alliances, yes. But for troop movement, I require… something else."
Rashid raised a brow.
"Name it," he said.
"Three things," Narasimha replied.
✢ V. Conditions for Trust
"First," Narasimha said, touching the map near Uyyalawada's cluster, "no troop movement you plan using our corridors may be directed against our villages or allied estates. Ever. Not under Nawab, not under some later 'protector.' If such a plan ever appears, you will warn me. I will close the road."
Rashid considered.
"Reasonable… but bold," he said. "Second?"
"Second," Narasimha continued, "no attacks on pilgrims, temple property, or women along these routes. If one of your commanders forgets this, your own court will discipline him—or my people will. Your choice which is gentler."
Rashid's eyes flickered.
"Harder to guarantee," he admitted. "Soldiers are… soldiers."
"Then choose commanders who fear your displeasure more than their impulse," Narasimha said. "Or don't use my routes. I will not turn my corridors into paths of dishonour."
Pedda Hanumantha watched, pride in his old eyes.
"This boy has teeth," he thought. "Good. Let princes see them now."
"And third?" Rashid asked, intrigued in spite of himself.
"Third," Narasimha said quietly, "in times to come, when storms grow greater—when Rebellion is no longer a word whispered only by poets but shouted by peoples—if I call upon Kurnool for shelter for certain persons, you grant it. Quietly. Without asking too many questions. Today I help move your goods. Tomorrow you may help hide… guests."
Rashid looked at him for a long moment.
"You speak," he said slowly, "like someone who expects history to… tilt."
"It always does," Narasimha replied. "I am merely planning where we want to be standing when it does."
Rashid's lips curved.
"You ask no tribute?" he said. "No land, no minted coin, no titles?"
Narasimha shrugged.
"Land I will build with my own hands," he said. "Coin I have enough headache managing. Titles… the British will throw some at anyone who pleases them; I do not care for their metal."
He leaned in slightly.
"What I want," he said, "is patterns. Reliable alliances. Promises that outlive minor officers. Kurnool's word now, not some treaty forced later."
Rashid sat back, impressed.
"This is not the talk of a harmless prince," he observed.
"In your reports," Narasimha said blandly, "it will be."
Rashid laughed aloud.
"I like you," he said. "Very well, Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy—Simha Dora. I will carry these three conditions to the Nawab. He is not fool. He will see the sense. If he agrees, we shall begin with grain and cloth. Later… perhaps, more."
He extended his hand.
Narasimha clasped it, firm and steady.
Kwa-chak.
A soft sound.
But in that moment, lines of fate shifted:
Kurnool's future decision not to betray Uyyalawada in a crucial hour.
A hidden refuge decades later for one of Narasimha's "identities" when British crackdowns intensified.
A door that would one day help channel certain information toward a secret circle in London, as royal lines entangled more deeply with spy networks.
All from one handshake in 1822.
❖ VI. Villagers, Mangoes, and Paperwork
That evening, returning from the tense negotiations, Narasimha barely had time to breathe before Lakshmamma intercepted him in the outer corridor.
"You promised the children you'd come to the mango grove," she said.
He blinked.
"I did?" he asked.
"Yes," she said firmly. "Last week, when you escaped from ledgers for half an hour, you told your cousins, 'Next time, if I don't come, you can drag me by my ears.' They are ready to do that."
Right on cue, three younger cousins appeared, eyes gleaming.
"Anna!" one shouted. "You said you'd teach us how to climb the big tree without falling!"
Another child added gravely, "Avva said if you don't come now, your brain will dry like old tamarind and be useless to everyone."
Lakshmamma coughed to hide a laugh.
Narasimha looked at his mother.
"I just negotiated multi-year strategic corridors with a Nawab's cousin," he said weakly.
"And now," she replied, "you will negotiate branches with monkeys."
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then he smiled, sudden and genuine.
"Fine," he said. "Let the Deathless Lion of Bharat go wrestle… mangoes."
In the grove, barefoot, he was a different boy.
He:
boosted kids onto lower branches,
pretended to wobble and nearly fall to make them shriek,
let one cousin "ambush" him with a fistful of raw tamarind,
loudly declared, "If I become king, my first law will be: no more meetings during mango season!"
Sri passed by at a distance, watching him as he hung upside down from a branch to rescue a stuck little one.
"Sometimes," she remarked to Devudu, who stood nearby, "I forget this is the same person who plans assassinations in ravines."
Devudu scratched his beard.
"Maybe that's why he can plan assassinations," he said. "If you never laugh, all your killing becomes about anger. If you laugh sometimes, you remember what you're trying to protect."
Later, Avva Seethamma sat at the grove's edge, chewing betel, watching her heir covered in sap and dirt, dragged by children as they argued about who got the sweetest slices.
"Good," she thought. "Let him be pulled by small hands, not just big duties."
✢ VII. Heaven Weighs a Lion's Popularity
In the subtle realms, the echoes of these scenes were as important as any battle.
Lakshmi smiled seeing villagers laugh more easily when Narasimha walked through the bazaar.
"They trust him," she said. "Not just as lord. As their boy."
Parvati nodded.
"This love will be his shield when the British seek to paint him as outlaw," she said. "When hanging ropes fall, people will remember these moments and say, 'No. He was ours.'"
Saraswati added,
"And his alliances with princes—if built on mutual respect and clear conditions—will prevent some foolish betrayals later. It won't stop all tragedy. But it will blunt some blades."
Maheshwara watched him swing from branches and later pore over maps again by lamplight.
"He is learning the hardest balance," he said. "How to be more than a man for many… while still being simply a man for a few."
Vishnu's gaze went further still.
"One day," he murmured, "he will walk beside men in armor suits and beside spies in stitched suits. His power will then be cosmic, his life centuries long. If he forgets this—the mangoes, the cousins, the grandmother's scolding—he will drift away from the very world he protects. So we must brand these days into him."
Brahma wrote:
1822 – Popular affection consolidates. Regional princes begin to trust his reliability; villagers deepen love. Emotional anchor strengthened.
❖ VIII. The Elder's Quiet Approval
That night, in the soft silence after dinner, Pedda Hanumantha Reddy visited Narasimha in the study.
Palm leaves lay in front of the boy.
He was rubbing his sore shoulders.
"You handled Rashid Khan well," the elder said.
Narasimha looked up.
"Did I?" he asked. "The whole time, I was thinking, 'If I say one word too sharp, we gain an enemy. If I say one word too soft, we become doormats.'"
"That is what ruling is," Hanumantha said dryly. "Stepping between sharp and soft until your feet hurt."
He came closer.
"When your grandfather was your age," he said, "he once tried to impress a visiting prince by boasting of how many men he could rally for war. It won him some respect. But later, that same prince thought, 'If I remove this powerful neighbour early, my children will sleep better.'"
He tapped the map gently.
"You chose a better path," he said. "You offered strength without flaunting it. You offered help with conditions, not servility. That… is kingcraft."
Narasimha let out a breath.
"Sometimes I wonder if I am becoming too cunning," he admitted. "Masks, half-truths, quiet daggers. I worry I will forget how to be straightforward."
Hanumantha chuckled.
"You?" he said. "Straightforward? I've seen you trip over your own dhoti trying to sneak sweets in the kitchen when you think no one is watching. You are not in danger of becoming entirely snake."
He grew serious.
"Listen," he said. "Cunning without dharma is poison. Dharma without cunning in Kaliyuga is suicide. You have both. And you have us to shout at you if you tilt too far. Trust that."
Narasimha's shoulders eased.
"Thank you, Thatha," he said.
The elder started to leave, then paused at the door.
"Oh, and Simha," he added.
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow," Hanumantha said solemnly, "you must attend the dispute over whose rooster crowed first."
Narasimha closed his eyes.
"Why?" he asked piteously.
Hanumantha coughed, hiding a smile.
"Because," he said, "if we handle big alliances but ignore small egos, we will have peace with Kurnool and war in our own street. Also, Avva said it will be good for your humility."
He left.
Narasimha groaned into his hands.
"Immortal king of future ages," he muttered, "judge of cosmic battles, slayer of demons, protector against alien invaders… and tomorrow, referee of… chickens."
Somewhere beyond sight, the gods laughed.
✵ IX. Closing of "Princes Trust Him, Villagers Love Him"
By the end of 1822, several quiet truths had settled around Uyyalawada like invisible pillars:
Villagers no longer saw their chieftain's heir as distant lord alone; they saw him as their Narasimha—who listened, who scolded gently, who made sure grain came and bullies feared shadows.
Neighbouring princes and chiefs began to mark his name on their mental maps as "reliable node"—a man whose word on trade, security, and secrecy could be trusted, if you accepted his sharp conditions.
The British still wrote "low threat" beside him, their curiosity dulled by his carefully crafted persona of mild, trade-loving, "not brave" dutiful son.
His family—Ramu, Lakshmamma, Seethamma, Pedda Hanumantha—watched him grow in three directions at once and quietly expanded their own efforts to keep him human.
And beneath all that, hidden even from most of them, the Deathless Lion's web continued to spread:
Trinetra's unseen eyes;
Chhaya Mandal's quiet hands;
Nisha-Prahari's reluctant blade;
the Hidden Bank's stabilizing embrace.
He was not yet king.
But in the hearts of those who mattered,
and in the files of officers who thought they understood power,
and in the whispers of foreign princes who sensed something more in this Rayalaseema boy,
Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy had already begun to walk the path of:
Bharat's hidden king in a world that had no idea yet
how loudly lions could roar
once masks finally dropped.
✦ End of Chapter 19 – "Princes Trust Him, Villagers Love Him" ✦