✵ I. When Too Many People Started Noticing
By mid–1821, Uyyalawada had become a rumor.
Not just a place.
A story.
Traders on the coastal routes said:
"If you deal with that estate, your carts don't vanish, and your scales aren't cheated."
Farmers in dry belts muttered:
"Their temple granaries… somehow, nobody there starved even in lean months."
Petty officers in the Company's dusty offices complained:
"Those blasted Rayalaseema fellows—quiet as mice, but their revenue sheets are never late and never wrong. It's… unsettling."
And then there were the darker whispers:
"Don't cross Uyyalawada. Not openly. Men who cheat them or hurt their people have started… falling sick in strange ways. Or they wake up with bruises and no memory. Or they find their secret accounts on a superior's desk."
The world had begun to sense something.
Not the whole truth.
Just an outline.
A… shape in the dark.
Trinetra had eyes everywhere.
Chhaya Mandal had hands.
Nisha-Prahari had… teeth, when forced.
All of that together meant one thing:
If the British really looked closely,
if some over-eager "intelligence officer" in Madras decided to make a name by "investigating these curious anomalies in Rayalaseema"…
it would become a headache.
Or a war.
Too early.
Narasimha was not ready for that.
Not yet.
So he decided to do something completely in character for him—
and completely infuriating to everyone who knew him well:
He decided to act stupid.
❖ II. The Strategy of Looking Small
It started as a casual comment.
Late evening.
The inner hall was quiet except for the scratching of styluses and Narasimha's increasingly disgruntled sighs over ledgers.
He flung one palm leaf down.
"I am too visible," he muttered.
Ramu looked up, offended.
"You? Visible? You dress like a village teacher," he said. "Where is visibility in that?"
"Not clothes," Narasimha said. "Effects."
He jabbed at the table.
"Trade routes stable. Bandits tamed. Temple funds working. Trinetra catching half the gossip on this continent. People talk. British listen. In two, three years, some idiot in a big coat will decide to 'study the peculiar efficiency of Uyyalawada' and then… we'll have red coats sniffing everywhere."
Ramu frowned.
"So?" he said. "We will show them we run an organized estate. They like organized things. They like ledgers. You have many ledgers. You and them will be friends."
Narasimha gave him a flat look.
"Ramu," he said, "you have met me."
"Yes," Ramu said. "Sadly."
"Do I look like I want more paperwork?" Narasimha asked.
Ramu grinned.
"Ah. There is the real fear."
An elder, listening from the side, chose that moment to speak.
"There is truth in what he says," the elder said. "When a tree grows tall, it draws lightning. If we stand out too much, even in good ways, the Company will wonder why. Curiosity is a dangerous disease in that race."
"So what do you propose?" Ramu asked. "Shrink?"
"Exactly," Narasimha said.
They stared at him.
He sighed.
"I don't mean actually shrink," he said. "I mean… appear smaller. Harmless. No sharp edges. A polite, dutiful, slightly bookish heir who loves accounts and doesn't care much for politics or… rebellion."
Ramu, Sri, and the elder said the same thing together:
"You?"
Narasimha spread his hands.
"Yes, yes, I know," he said. "Inside, I am plotting multi-layered intelligence webs and muttering about future wars with iron birds. Outside, though, I can look like…"
He drew himself up, cleared his throat, and in an instant his entire presence shifted:
shoulders slightly rounded,
gaze softer, wandering,
voice light, almost hesitant.
"Adhēmi," he said in an overly earnest tone. "I am just very interested in… crop rotation and… British irrigation methods, saar."
Ramu choked.
"Who are you and where is my Dora?" he demanded.
Narasimha relaxed, the act falling off him like a shawl.
"Mask," he said simply. "We need one."
The elder's eyes glinted now with reluctant respect.
"This… could work," he said slowly. "We keep our inner strength hidden. Show them only what they expect: a provincial landlord's son who likes numbers but has no real ambition beyond his estate."
"Exactly," Narasimha said. "While they see a… mildly boring, trade-focused 'native gentleman,' we continue building Trinetra, Chhaya Mandal, Nisha-Prahari, banks, alliances…"
He smiled faintly.
"Let them classify me 'Low threat. Business minded.'"
He winked. "It will be the most useful lie they ever write."
✢ III. Heaven Reacts to His "Stupidity Plan"
In Vaikuntha, the six watched him practice his new mask.
Lakshmi laughed first.
"Oh ho," she said. "Look at him bend his shoulders. Suddenly he looks like those mild zamindar sons who spend more time choosing shawl colours than studying politics."
Saraswati smiled.
"Acting is also a form of intelligence," she said. "In Mahabharata itself, did not Krishna play many roles to steer dharma? The ability to present the face the world expects while hiding your true depth is not deceit alone—it is strategy."
Parvati's expression was mixed: amused and fond.
"He has always been two people," she said softly. "The king and the boy. The lion and the one who hates paperwork. Now he adds a third mask: the harmless scholar-prince."
Maheshwara nodded.
"In an age where enemies watch everything," he said, "sometimes survival depends on letting them watch the wrong thing."
Vishnu's eyes gleamed.
"One day," he remarked, "our child will live in a world of masked heroes and public identities—billionaire playboys who pretend to be irresponsible while secretly saving cities, spies who pose as drunkards, kings who masquerade as exiled wanderers. It is only fitting he learns this art early."
Brahma's quill scratched:
1821 – Strategic Persona: 'Harmless Prince' initiated. Outer façade: mild, dutiful; inner core: lion.
❖ IV. The First Audience – Testing the Mask
The test came sooner than expected.
A Company collector from a neighbouring district sent a polite, stiff invitation:
"I shall be touring the Rayalaseema divisions to better understand local conditions and to see how exemplary revenue stability such as yours has been achieved."
Translation:
"I'm coming to poke around."
Narasimha's father handed him the letter.
"Here is your chance," he said. "Show us this mask of yours."
Narasimha sighed dramatically.
"If I must," he said. "But I warn you… too much politeness may cause physical discomfort."
The day the collector arrived, the courtyard was prepared:
modest, not ostentatious,
records ready,
temple visible in the distance.
Narasimha took his place slightly behind and to the side of his father, as befitted a still-"junior" heir.
The collector, Mr. Hargreaves, descended from his palanquin with the slightly superior smile of a man who believed he understood his place in the cosmic order.
He greeted the elder chieftain, then turned to study Narasimha.
"And this must be your son," Hargreaves said. "I have heard he takes some interest in trade."
The old Narasimha—the unmasked one—would have met that gaze with equal weight, eyes like flint, words edged with quiet challenge.
The current Narasimha blinked once, then gave a small, slightly awkward smile.
"Yes, sahib," he said in careful English. "A little… interest only. Mostly I follow my father's guidance. I am still learning."
He slightly overdid the "still learning."
Hargreaves' eyes relaxed a fraction.
"Ah," he said. "Good. The young must learn to respect elders. And your accounts…"
He gestured toward the inner hall.
"The revenue figures from your estate are quite satisfactory," he continued. "Minimal arrears. No recorded incidents of serious unrest. I should like to see how you maintain such… discipline."
"Of course," the elder chieftain said.
They walked in.
Clerks brought records.
For the next hour, Narasimha did something that made half of Trinetra's top minds want to scream:
He downplayed his own ideas.
Whenever Hargreaves asked how a certain grain buffer was managed, Narasimha replied:
"Ah, that one… my father and the senior elders designed. I only… help with counting."
When Hargreaves mentioned Varsha Nidhi, Narasimha described it as:
"A small… village-level arrangement… nothing formal. People here… like to help each other. It reduces your office's burden also, no?"
He even added a self-deprecating chuckle at times.
Hargreaves nodded, a touch patronizing.
"Very commendable," he said. "Most young men of your station are interested only in sport and pleasure. It is good to see at least one thinking in… orderly ways."
Inwardly, Narasimha's lion-self wanted to bare fangs.
Outwardly he smiled softly.
"I am not brave, sahib," he said. "I do not like conflict. If accounts are in order, people are less angry. Then I can sleep without worry. So… I work for that only."
Hargreaves chuckled.
"Ah yes," he said. "Peaceful nights. We all value that."
He had no idea that the boy in front of him spent half his nights arranging shadow operations and watching over networks that spanned half the subcontinent.
To him, Narasimha was:
dutiful,
mildly dull,
unthreatening.
Exactly as planned.
✢ V. A Private Conversation and a Quiet Warning
Later that evening, after the formal inspection, Hargreaves requested a more informal talk.
They sat in the inner verandah, much like Edwin had sat before—but Edwin was a thinker.
Hargreaves was a functionary.
"I hope," Hargreaves said, sipping his tea, "that you understand the importance of continued cooperation with the Company. Many estates… resent us. That resentment can grow to… unfortunate disturbances."
Narasimha kept his shoulders relaxed, hands loosely folded.
"Resentment grows when people feel unheard, sahib," he said mildly. "Here… we try to handle complaints before they become… big. That is why your office has fewer petitions from this area."
"Yes, yes," Hargreaves said, waving a hand. "Very good. Keep it that way."
His tone shifted slightly.
"You should also be wary," he added. "There are agitators about. Men who whisper of resistance, rebellion, 'freedom.' Dangerous words. I trust you will report any such seditious activity in your lands."
Narasimha tilted his head, letting his face show carefully measured innocence.
"Freedom is nice word, sahib," he said. "But people here… mostly think of next crop. Not big politics. If some fool speaks wild ideas, our elders scold him. No need to trouble your office."
Hargreaves studied him.
"For your sake," he said, "I hope you are right. The Company has no patience for… revolutionaries."
Narasimha lowered his gaze, as if cowed.
"I have no taste for such things," he said softly. "I only want… quiet prosperity. My family taught me—better to bend small than to break big."
Half-truth.
Hargreaves nodded approvingly.
"Wise," he said. "Remember that."
He finished his tea, made a few more conventional remarks, and retired.
When he left Uyyalawada next morning, his notes to Madras read:
"Uyyalawada estate—well-managed, cooperative, traditional in customs but not obstinate. Heir (N. Reddy) appears studious, more inclined toward trade and estate accounts than politics. Displays respect toward Company authority. Low risk of sedition at present. Region overall may be considered stable."
Exactly the classification Narasimha wanted.
❖ VI. What the Mask Costs
After Hargreaves' departure, Narasimha slumped in the inner hall like a punctured waterskin.
Ramu, Sri, and two elders sat around him.
"That," Ramu said, "was horrifying."
"Which part?" Narasimha asked tiredly. "The part where I called myself 'not brave'? Or the part where I almost offered to help him balance his own accounts out of habit?"
Sri snorted.
"You sounded like some mild landlord's son from a folk tale," she said. "If I didn't know you, I'd have asked you to hold my ledger while the adults talked."
"Good," Narasimha said. "If you feel that way, then Hargreaves definitely does."
The elder nodded, more serious.
"This mask… it will protect us wider," he said. "But it will also… isolate you, Dora."
Narasimha looked up.
"How so?" he asked.
"Those who don't know you deeply will treat you as harmless," the elder said. "They will condescend, underestimate, exclude you from discussions where they show their real priorities. You will have to endure being treated as 'lesser' so that you can overhear things safely."
Narasmha's expression tightened.
"I can bear it," he said.
"Can you bear it for decades?" the elder asked gently. "For lifetimes?"
For a moment, Ichha-Marana's weight pushed against his ribs.
Lifetimes.
Masks.
The thought tasted like iron.
He forced a small smile.
"If I must," he said. "Better their arrogance bruises my pride than their bullets bruise my people."
His mother, who had been listening quietly from the doorway, approached and placed a hand on his head.
"You will get tired," she said softly. "On those days, remember: the mask exists to serve the face beneath—not to replace it. When you are with your own people, drop it. Laugh loudly. Complain. Break protocol. Let them carry some weight of your truth."
He leaned briefly into her hand, like he had when he was much smaller.
"Yes, Amma," he murmured.
✢ VII. Heaven Watches the Performance
In Vaikuntha, the Trimurti and Tridevi saw the inspection replay like a theatre scene:
The mild young heir,
the patronizing collector,
the hidden sharpness behind every soft answer.
Lakshmi sighed.
"This path will be hard on his heart," she said. "To be more than men and yet less in their eyes… repeatedly."
Parvati nodded.
"He will need anchors," she said. "Friends and family before whom he can be entirely himself. Otherwise, the mask will start eating his face."
Saraswati's veena hummed with a thoughtful note.
"He is learning the art that future spies and heroes must all master," she said. "How to wear a role so convincingly that even you start to believe parts of it. And then how to remember, in lonely hours, who you really are."
Maheshwara's gaze was steady.
"He chose this," he said. "We gave him power and time. He is choosing cunning over brute defiance. That is growth."
Vishnu added, with a half-smile:
"And truly, Kaliyuga's protectors will require such skills. When cosmic threats rise and agencies like SHIELD form, masks will be standard. Secret identities, files marking 'Threat Level: Low' while men hide worlds inside them… our lion will fit right in."
Brahma wrote:
Mask established successfully. External classification: 'Low Threat'. Internal reality: expanding web.
❖ VIII. The Mask in Daily Life
The "Harmless Prince" was not just for British officers.
It became part of Narasimha's everyday theatre.
In public village meetings, when disputes arose over canal water, people now saw:
a calm, patient young heir,
listening more than speaking,
asking elders for input,
occasionally cracking a light joke about "not wanting to be shouted at by both sides," which made people laugh and relax.
He rarely displayed open fury.
Punishments for injustice were still firm—land seized illegally was returned, bullies were shamed—but the way he announced decisions was gentle.
Inside, he raged.
Particularly when dealing with repeat offenders or those who preyed on the weak.
Sometimes he would walk away from a meeting, enter a side room, and only then let his fist slam into a pillar.
Ramu or Sri would close the door quietly and let him breathe.
"You are supposed to be harmless," Ramu reminded him once, grinning.
"Harmless… in public," Narasimha corrected, flexing his sore hand. "In private, I am allowed to punch architecture."
When traders from other regions visited, they saw in him:
a sharp negotiator, yes,
but more interested in long-term stability than aggressive profit,
someone who seemed more "merchant-lord" than "warrior-chieftain."
Many underestimated him.
That was fine.
It made them talk more freely.
Trinetra listened.
✢ IX. The British File – Past and Future
In a poorly lit office in Madras, some months after Hargreaves' visit, a junior clerk compiled a dossier:
Native Estates – Risk and Reliability Summary, 1821
– Uyyalawada (Rayalaseema)
• Revenue: Consistent, above average for terrain.
• Disturbances: Minimal.
• Leadership: Elder chieftain cooperative.
• Heir (Narasimha Reddy): Educated, polite, mild. Shows interest in trade and estate management. No known seditious leanings.
• Overall: Low Threat. High Administrative Value.
He closed the file, never imagining that in a future age, generations later, someone else would open it—
In a secure underground facility in London, under a tailor shop called Kingsman…
or in a glass-walled office of SHIELD, where analysts scanned old colonial records looking for patterns in "unusual stability zones" in Earth's history.
One day, a future agent might run a finger down the page and frown.
"Interesting," they'd murmur. "This region stayed unusually intact through multiple famines and political upheavals. And this name…"
Narasimha Reddy.
"…shows up more often than it should, for too many decades."
They'd highlight it.
Add it to a digital board.
Another piece in the puzzle of "Individuals of Potential Interest."
But that would be centuries later.
For now, in 1821, one line—Low Threat—served as Narasimha's shield.
❖ X. Behind the Mask – Refining the Web
Protected by this new reputation, Narasimha accelerated his hidden work.
Trade routes expanded deeper into:
Mysore territories,
Tamil heartlands,
even cautious feelers toward the north-west, through caravan intermediaries.
Trinetra set up more "eyes" disguised as:
wandering bards,
cloth dyers,
bullock-cart handles,
temple drummers.
Chhaya Mandal refined its methods, building non-lethal responses as default:
ruining records,
staging "accidents",
terrifying predators without necessarily killing them.
Nisha-Prahari stayed small, used sparingly, their last operation still weighing heavy.
The hidden bank—the Suraksha, Beej, Varsha system—grew branch-like extensions:
smaller Varsha pools in distant villages,
travelling Suraksha agents who collected deposits and delivered receipts on markets days,
Beej loans for crafts beyond agriculture: potters, blacksmiths, small boat owners.
All under one apparent banner:
"Uyyalawada's efficiency."
Not rebellion.
Not independence.
Just… competence.
The British loved the word "efficient."
They rarely noticed when it hid resilience.
✵ XI. Closing of "The Mask of the Harmless Prince"
By the time 1821 moved toward its close, Narasimha had become three men at once:
To the British: a mild, promising estate heir—useful, cooperative, unthreatening. A "Low Threat. High Value" entry on a forgettable page.
To his people: a calm but steel-spined chieftain-in-training, who loved jokes, hated paperwork, and somehow always made sure grain came when needed and bullies backed down.
To the gods and to himself: a Deathless Lion wearing a sheep's shawl, weaving networks that would one day cradle an entire region through wars, cosmic crises, and the arrival of heroes in metal suits and stars-and-stripes shields.
Some nights he felt powerful.
Most nights he felt tired.
He would sit on the terrace, look at the sky, and mutter to no one in particular:
"I have to pretend to be weaker so you don't panic and hit me harder. I have to be kinder than my enemies so my soul doesn't rot. I have to be harsher than my people want so they learn to stand. And on top of that, I have to fill three new ledgers tomorrow. Truly, Bhagavan, your sense of humour continues."
The stars said nothing.
But far above them, in dimensions where gods, Eternals, and future sorcerers watched, a quiet understanding passed:
This boy, playing harmless while holding more power than most rulers of his age, was a hinge.
On him, the door between Bharat's ancient dharma and Marvel's coming chaos would slowly swing.
For now, the hinge acted rusty, squeaking politely, drawing no attention.
But when the time came,
when wars thundered and worlds collided,
the mask would crack,
the lion would stand,
and those who once wrote "Low Threat" would realize—
far too late—
that the most dangerous weapon in history is not the one that roars…
…but the one that smiles softly and says:
"I am just here to keep things peaceful."
✦ End of Chapter 18 – "The Mask of the Harmless Prince" ✦