✦ I. The Day the Heir Was Named
The year had barely tipped past 1823 when Uyyalawada decided to make something official that most hearts had already accepted.
In the inner courtyard, where mango trees threw patchy shade over red earth, a platform had been set.
Not the grandest.
Not the richest.
But the one where:
disputes were settled,
grain was measured,
weddings blessed,
and babies named.
Today, the village drums had a different rhythm.
Ramu Ramachandra Reddy—hair streaked with more grey than before, shoulders still broad—stood on the platform, wrapped in a spotless dhoti and angavastram.
Beside him, slightly behind, Narasimha stood:
wound fully healed now,
bullet-scar a faint line,
eyes clear,
posture straight.
Seethamma sat in the front row like an inspecting general.
Lakshmamma was beside her, quietly emotional.
Hanumantha Reddy, Sri, Ayyappa, Raghava, Devudu—Uyyalawada's inner circle—hovered at the edges of the crowd.
Men from nearby estates had come.
So had merchants from the Sangha.
Even a British Assistant Collector lurked near the back, hat in hand, curiosity barely hidden.
Ramu raised his hand.
The murmurs settled.
"People of Uyyalawada," he said, voice carrying easily across the courtyard, "when I took this seat, my father was still strong. He shouted at me for half my mistakes and praised me quietly for the other half. We built together."
He glanced at Narasimha.
"Now," he continued, "my bones tell me their story. They say, 'You have walked enough in front. It is time to walk beside—and then behind.'"
A soft ripple of reaction.
Some sadness.
More acceptance.
"From this day," Ramu said, "before dharma, before gods, before you all, I name my son, Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy, as heir to the chieftainship. In decisions, he will lead. In burdens, he will carry. In mistakes, he will answer."
He turned.
Placed both hands on Narasimha's shoulders.
"You have already acted in this role," he murmured. "Now wear its name as well."
Narasimha bowed low to his father.
Then to the crowd.
"My father says I will lead," he said, voice steady. "I say I will serve. Leading is just… a more tiring way of doing it."
A ripple of laughter eased the solemnity.
The British Assistant Collector—Mr. Henry Clarke—watched, making mental notes.
Heir confirmed, he thought. Local sentiment strong, but manageable. Boy speaks well. Slightly too clever, but not… fiery. Useful intermediary material. Harmless, as long as handled carefully.
High above, Lakshmi smirked.
"Harmless," she echoed.
Parvati snorted.
"Let them keep thinking that a little longer," she said.
Maheshwara's eyes glinted.
"A lion cub named heir," he murmured. "Soon enough, they will learn the difference between a village intermediary and Bharat's hidden king."
❖ II. The Night Between Roles
That night, when the drums were quiet and courtyards emptied, Narasimha sat alone on the roof, legs dangling, a plate of leftover sweets beside him.
The stars were sharp.
The air smelled of smoke and jasmine.
Gosayi Venkanna climbed up more quietly than any old man had a right to.
"You hid from your own celebration," the Guru remarked. "Tradition will be offended."
"I have been smiled at enough for one day," Narasimha said. "If one more person says 'congratulations' I may start charging a tax."
Venkanna settled down beside him.
"So," he asked, "how does it feel? To be officially what you were already becoming?"
"Heavier," Narasimha admitted. "Like I was carrying a sack on my shoulder before, and now someone has politely stitched it to my skin."
He popped a sweet into his mouth.
"I don't like power," he added. "It's just… more work."
"Good," Venkanna said. "Men who enjoy power too much should never have it. You will complain your way into good decisions."
Narasimha huffed a laugh.
"Tomorrow," he said, "they will bring more paperwork. More petitions. More expectations."
"Tomorrow," Venkanna corrected, "you will start wearing the mantle that will one day carry a rebellion, a kingdom, and a secret global web. Today, you can still eat sweets on the roof and pretend you are only one boy."
He looked at his student side-long.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
"Yes," Narasimha said simply. "Of failing them. Of misjudging. Of becoming so wrapped in plans that I forget faces."
"Keep the fear," Venkanna said. "It will keep you from arrogance. But remember also: the gods did not choose you to tiptoe. When it is time to roar, roar fully."
Narasimha squinted at the stars.
"Do you think," he murmured, "they'll let me have one year without bullets?"
Venkanna patted his shoulder.
"Stop asking for impossible things," he said. "Ask for strength instead."
✢ III. The Ascension as Chieftain
The formal ascension came some months later.
Ramu did not die.
He simply did something rarer in those days:
He stepped back.
"My son," he told the elders, "is better suited for the storms ahead. I grew up in a world where enemies were mostly across the field, sword in hand. His world has enemies two oceans away, pen in hand. Let him handle it."
So, on an auspicious day chosen by priests and firmly adjusted by Seethamma ("Not that day, that was when your grandfather had diarrhoea, I refuse"), the chieftainship passed.
In the main hall:
lamps blazed,
bells rang,
conch shells boomed.
Ramu tied the ceremonial pattu kadiyam (silken headband) on Narasimha's forehead.
Priests chanted.
Narasimha touched the ancestral sword, then the soil at the hall's centre.
"From today," Hanumantha announced, "before law and land, Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy is our Dora—chieftain of this estate."
The British sent a letter of recognition:
"We are pleased to acknowledge the succession of Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy as zamindar over his hereditary holdings, under the guidance and supervision of the Honourable Company."
Clever phrasing.
He kept that letter carefully.
Not out of respect.
As evidence.
Later.
Mr. Henry Clarke paid a courtesy call, all smiles.
"Congratulations, Narasimha Dora," he said. "Quite young to bear such a burden, eh?"
Narasimha smiled modestly.
"I have elders with strong sticks," he said. "If I walk crooked, they will straighten me."
Clarke chuckled.
"The Company appreciates steady local partners," he said. "You've done well managing grain, arranging fair taxes, avoiding unrest. Continue like this, and we may even recommend some formal honours."
He meant titles.
Medals.
Little bits of metal and English words meant to make men forget they were being strangled slowly.
Narasimha bowed.
"Thank you," he said.
He did not say:
When you finally realize I am the core of the storm, your medals will be too small to matter.
Above, Vishnu murmured:
"The spider smiles at the bee, offering a medal for bringing honey. It does not realize the bee is also mapping the web."
❖ IV. Reforms That Looked Small
The first decrees of Narasimha's chieftainship were… boring.
At least, that's how they looked to anyone skimming.
No dramatic proclamations about throwing off British yoke.
No fiery speeches.
Instead, small, technical changes:
Land Records Clean-Up
Old, messy palm leaves replaced with standardized records.
Boundaries clarified.
Hidden overlaps removed.
To villagers, it meant fewer disputes over fields.
To Narasimha, it meant:
true understanding of who owned what,
precise knowledge of how much grain he could move in crisis,
a clear picture of where British tax officers could most easily squeeze.
Granary Rotation
He decreed that all village storage pits be:
inspected twice a year,
rotated to avoid spoilage,
partially linked to Varsha Nidhi (monsoon fund).
It sounded like housekeeping.
In practice, it meant:
less wasted grain,
more surplus quietly diverted into hidden stores,
greater ability to support neighbours without buying British-imported rice.
Militia Drills "For Floods and Fires"
Narasimha announced:
"In these times, we must be ready for natural disasters—flood, fire, disease. Every village will train able-bodied men and women in basic drills: forming lines, carrying loads, responding to alarms."
The British files noted:
"Local militia drills observed in Uyyalawada, allegedly for 'emergency response.' No firearms. No overt anti-government slogans. Low threat."
What they did not see:
Trinetra quietly mapping who responded fastest,
Sri selecting promising individuals for deeper, secret combat training as Shadow Blades,
Ayyappa and Devudu turning these "disaster drills" into basic unit coordination exercises.
Dispute Resolution Circles
He created small village councils where:
elders,
women representatives,
temple caretakers,
and one trained clerk
would meet weekly to resolve small quarrels.
To the British, it was "native panchayat nonsense."
To Narasimha, it was building:
habit of self-governance,
channels through which information flowed upward to Trinetra,
a culture of solving problems locally rather than running to colonial courts.
Merchant Tax Rebates for "Security Investment"
Samudra Vyāpara Sangha members who:
improved certain roads,
funded warehouse construction,
hired local guards from Uyyalawada's lists,
were given small remissions in local levies.
This:
boosted trade,
tied merchant goodwill to Uyyalawada's banner,
and quietly expanded the Sangha's infrastructure.
All these reforms together looked like:
"A young zamindar tidying up his house."
In reality, he was:
tightening his grip on information,
deepening his logistical backbone,
building parallel institutions beneath British visibility.
A Chola king of old, dropped into that hall, would have recognized what was happening:
Not loud empire-building.
But foundation-laying.
✢ V. The Hidden Navy of a Landlocked Lion
Of all the things Narasimha was proud of (and tried not to show), the naval web was nearest to his heart.
"Funny," Avuku Raju once snorted, "that a man from rocky Rayalaseema has more ships than some coastal chiefs."
Samudra Vyāpara Sangha's escort ships were, on paper:
privately-owned vessels,
belonging to Gujarati traders, Tamil boatmen, Arab captains, even a few European "adventurers."
Their flags were:
varied,
unthreatening,
often local.
But in truth:
Their hull designs had quietly incorporated Chola-era wisdom—sleek curves that rode monsoon waves better,
Their rigging was adapted from both Indian and foreign styles, allowing swift manoeuvring,
Their cargo holds had hidden compartments:
some for emergency weapons,
others for sensitive messages.
They escorted convoys from:
Surat to Aden,
Tuticorin to Ceylon,
Calcutta to Penang,
Bombay down around Africa's horn—through allied hands.
When pirates appeared, these "merchant guards" were:
fast to respond,
precise in their violence,
oddly coordinated for supposedly independent ships.
Several times, East India Company captains wrote irritated notes:
"Piracy strangely reduced on some routes where certain 'native escorts' operate. Unsure who commands them. Their cooperation might be useful. Investigate."
Of course, investigating was hard when:
ship captains changed flags regularly,
ownership papers were a maze of shell houses,
and everywhere, local officials insisted:
"Oh, those? Just merchant guards. They pay their taxes."
At the true centre, in Uyyalawada's map room, Narasimha had drawn his own private ocean:
Each ship marked not by its public name, but by a sigil Trinetra understood.
Each captain ranked not by wealth, but by:
reliability,
dharmic alignment,
resistance to bribery.
It was not yet a navy that could stand in open war against the full British fleet.
But it could:
protect Indian merchant convoys,
divert "accidents" away from allied coasts,
transport key people quietly,
and, in a future crisis, choke certain trade flows by simply… pausing.
If the old Chola admiral Karikala could have seen it, he might have said:
"You have less crown, more shadow. But the seas listen to you already."
❖ VI. The Web Across Oceans
Trinetra's gaze had once stopped at Kutch, Ceylon, Burma.
Now, under Narasimha's direction, it extended further.
Through merchant contacts, code-phrases, and the shared language of profit, the Sangha:
established agents in Muscat, Aden, Basra—ports of the Arabian Gulf;
touched Zanzibar and Mombasa on the East African coast;
opened discreet relationships in Batavia (Dutch East Indies);
and even sniffed around Lisbon and Marseilles through diaspora connections.
These were not full branches.
Not yet.
But the seeds were planted:
A Parsi trader in Bombay wrote coded margins on ship manifests bound for London.
A Tamil-speaking clerk in a French trading house in Pondicherry sent occasional, carefully worded letters eastward.
An Arab dhow captain, indebted to Uyyalawada for past rescue from pirates, agreed to carry certain sealed packets to specific hands in Cairo.
The information flowed:
about commodity prices,
about shifting European alliances,
about new technologies murmured in dockside taverns,
about strange shipments labelled innocently but smelling of guns.
To most in the Sangha, the oath was:
"We serve trade."
To the inner circle, the extended vow was:
"We serve people—our people first, then any caught under unjust boots. We will not enrich those who profit from chains."
Which led directly to one of their iron rules:
No involvement in slavery.
No transport of human cargo.
No profits from chains.
Ever.
Offers came, of course.
A Portuguese factor once suggested, in heavily accented Hindustani:
"Ah, my Indian friend, there is much money shipping certain kinds of… labour to certain islands. Discreetly, of course. You have such fine ships. We could—"
The Sangha's representative—a mild-looking Gujarati—smiled beautifully.
"We move spice and cloth," he said smoothly. "If we ever move men, it will be as passengers with tickets, not as goods in chains. But please, carry on. Have more tea."
Later, that same factor's information—about slave routes, brutal plantations, and corrupt officials—would quietly find its way through Trinetra to groups who could use it.
Sometimes to local rebels.
Sometimes, in decades yet to come, to foreign abolitionists.
The Sangha was not a charity.
It was a hard-headed, numbers-loving alliance.
But it had a line.
And under Narasimha's guidance, it did not cross it.
✢ VII. The Westerners in the Coils
Among the many faces in Samudra Vyāpara Sangha, a few stood out to British eyes:
Edwin Fairfax—that aristocratic misfit from an old English house, stationed in India to "gain experience."
We met him briefly before—sharp blue eyes, moral discomfort with Company brutality, a mind that kept noticing holes in the official narrative.
After his private conversation with Narasimha years ago, he had become:
a quiet advisor,
a bridge between certain European circles and Uyyalawada,
a seed that would one day sprout the Kingsman ideals.
Now, he brought others.
Men and women who:
had seen too much hypocrisy in their own capitals,
believed in commerce without cruelty,
distrusted both monarchs and mobs when unrestrained.
A Dutch captain whose family had lost everything when a corrupted governor favoured his cronies.
A French trader who had lived through revolutions and no longer believed that guillotines fixed souls.
A Scottish engineer fascinated by irrigation and shipbuilding more than empire.
They came for profit.
They stayed because the Sangha's inner oath resonated:
"Not for monarchs. Not for colonial pride. For the people along the routes we sail."
In British files, these foreigners were labelled:
"Unreliable – too friendly with natives."
"Idealistic – potentially useful to influence certain groups."
"Excess sympathy toward local grievances. Monitor."
Some Company analysts even formed a quiet theory:
"If we place our own 'enlightened' men within this Sangha, we can guide it. Use it to our advantage. Steer native trade energies in directions favourable to London."
They made lists.
They sent memos.
They did not realize:
Every "useful" Westerner they tried to push into the Sangha had already been turned, measured, and—if accepted—absorbed into Uyyalawada's values.
The alliance did not serve crowns.
It served routes, villages, crews, families.
People who lived and died depending on whether rain fell and whether ships arrived.
In secret meetings, Trinetra agents would sit with Edwin and others and say:
"You can keep your languages and your gods. We will keep ours. But on three things we stand together:
No slavery.
No selling arms to men who burn villages rather than defend them.
No betrayal of those who trust our ships."
They sealed these agreements not with blood oaths,
but with shared risk.
A convoy diverted to save a famine-struck coast.
A dangerous information packet carried into a warzone.
A British corrupt official exposed quietly in London by Edwin's pen.
One day, generations later, the ideals of Kingsman—
"Manners maketh man. Oxfords not brogues. Independence from governments, allegiance to humanity."
—would echo faintly the Sangha's early creed.
And at the heart of that echo, if one listened closely, was the quiet voice of a Rayalaseema chieftain who never wanted a crown but accepted one because someone had to carry the map.
❖ VIII. Heaven Reads the Balance Sheet
In Vaikuntha, Lakshmi watched the ledgers of Samudra Vyāpara Sangha with unusual interest.
"Look at him," she said. "He builds like a merchant-prince and gives like a king. Profit and dharma balanced—not perfectly, but better than most."
Saraswati noted,
"He is turning knowledge of flows—of grain, of coin, of ships—into a weapon as sharp as any sword. One day, when he cuts off a route, empires will feel the slice."
Parvati smiled faintly.
"And he refuses to carry slaves," she said. "Good. We would not bless chains."
Maheshwara's gaze turned seaward.
"Chola once ruled these waters with flags and bronze," he murmured. "Our lion rules with secrecy and agreements. Different age, same dharmic ocean."
Vishnu's eyes were distant.
"In the Marvel age," he said, "men will talk of S.H.I.E.L.D.—a global network of spies and ships above the sky. They will think that is new. They will not know that, long before helicarriers, a boy in dhoti built a quieter, older version in wood and monsoon winds."
Brahma wrote:
U.N.R. – militarized merchant navy reaches Chola-like functional influence in disguised form. Western idealists begin integration into dharmic trade web.
✢ IX. The Lion in Court, the Fool at Home
With titles confirmed and networks deepened, Narasimha's days settled into a pattern that would define much of his youth:
In court, he was:
Simha Dora—back straight, eyes sharp, voice calm.
A ruler whose judgments were swift but rarely cruel.
The kind of chieftain who listened to a poor woman's grievance with the same attention he gave a merchant's proposal.
He:
punished corrupt village heads,
reduced taxes where drought bit hardest,
forced arrogant minor nobles to apologize publicly to commoners they'd wronged,
scolded his own guards if they treated villagers roughly.
In front of British officers, he wore another mask:
respectful, slightly self-deprecating,
"just a zamindar, Sahib, trying to keep peace so revenue flows,"
a man who asked sensible questions about railway rumours and new factories, all while mapping exactly where those rails would scar the land.
In war-games with his inner circle, he was:
asura-eyed,
ruthless toward hypothetical enemies,
unwilling to gamble lives cheaply.
In front of his family, however…
He was just Narsi.
The same boy who:
grumbled about paperwork,
hid in kitchens to steal sweets,
let younger cousins climb his back like he was an elephant.
One evening, after a particularly long day of:
settling a land dispute,
sending coded instructions to a captain near Aden,
writing a carefully bland letter to a British collector about "roads improvement,"
he collapsed in the inner hall with his head on the low writing desk.
Lakshmamma walked in to find her chieftain-son murmuring into an ink-stained cloth.
"What sin did I commit in my last life," he groaned, "to deserve this many palm leaves?"
She laughed and ruffled his hair.
"In your last life, you prayed too hard to be 'useful' to the world," she said. "The gods heard and misinterpreted."
He lifted his face, eyes dramatic.
"Sometimes," he said, "I envy the village drunkard. His biggest decision is which direction to fall."
Seethamma, passing by with her stick, snorted.
"Fall in wrong direction, and you land under my stick," she said. "Be thankful you are only crushed under responsibilities."
In that, there was a secret:
His humour at home kept him from drifting too far into the role of "distant ruler."
His family refused to let him become only a symbol.
He remained a man—
who could be mocked,
who could trip over his own dhoti,
who could cry quietly when a child died of fever despite all the grain and roads and efforts.
Such a man, when he turned asura-faced in battle or politics, was more dangerous than a monster:
Because he still remembered why he fought.
✵ X. Closing of "The Quiet Coronation of a Storm"
By the close of Chapter 23, the shape of the future stood clearer:
The boy who once secretly read Marvel stories in another life had become, in this one, the chieftain of Uyyalawada.
Officially, he was a dutiful zamindar, recognized by Company letters, praised for "stability" and "good revenue sense."
Unofficially, he commanded:
a spy network—Trinetra—that now watched across oceans,
a merchant alliance—Samudra Vyāpara Sangha—that could rival companies in wealth,
a hidden navy whose escort ships could one day become the backbone of a true war-fleet,
a mosaic of western allies who believed, not in empire, but in the shared dignity of people.
His reforms looked like:
land records,
granary checks,
village councils,
militia drills.
They were, in fact:
the scaffolding of a shadow state—loyal not to London, nor to a single throne,
but to dharma and the people under his watch.
The British wrote:
"Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy – confirmed heir, now chief. Intelligent, pragmatic, low immediate threat. Potential useful intermediary for Southern districts."
Villagers said:
"Our Simha Dora listens. He does not let us starve. He stands between us and their boots."
Merchants whispered:
"If you sail under his web, storms still come… but you are never entirely alone."
And somewhere, far in the future, analysts in glass towers and hidden bunkers, combing through centuries of data, would stare at patterns and mutter:
"Whoever built this… wasn't playing at zamindari. This was… early global strategy."
For now, in the soft lamp-light of Uyyalawada's halls, a newly crowned young chieftain rubbed his aching temples, staring at yet another stack of palm leaves, and sighed:
"Immortality," he muttered, "and still not enough hours in a day."
The gods laughed.
Because they knew:
Time would stretch plenty for him.
And soon, the silent preparations of this newly crowned lion would meet the blunt, brutal arrogance of Empire—
and the world would finally hear
the beginning of his roar.
✦ End of Chapter 23 – "The Quiet Coronation of a Storm" ✦