✦ I. Drawing a Kingdom with Brick and Ink
Once the formalities of chieftainship settled—seals changed, letters updated, British files amended with smug official phrases—Narasimha did not march out with banners and swords.
He went to his map room.
The room had once been a modest chamber with shelves of palm-leaf records and a few rolled-up charts.
Under Narasimha, it became something else:
a wide stone hall with
one entire wall painted as a map of Rayalaseema and adjoining regions,
rope-marked routes for caravans,
blue lines for rivers and tanks,
red threads for British roads and posts,
small iron tokens indicating allied chiefs, merchants, and Trinetra cells.
It was here, one evening, that he placed two seemingly unrelated sketches side by side:
A rough design of a new mansion-fort complex for Uyyalawada.
A wild, audacious drawing of rivers, canals, and a massive structure on the Godavari that no one had asked for yet.
Sri raised a brow.
"You're planning to make your descendants' lives difficult," she remarked. "You want a palace and a river project in the same decade?"
"It's all connected," Narasimha said, tapping both sheets. "If we're going to stand against empires, we need a visible spine—a seat that tells our people 'this house will not fall tomorrow'—and an invisible circulatory system—water routes that feed the land even when rains fail."
Devudu, peering at the sketches, scratched his head.
"I understand walls," he said. "Hit them, don't hit them, where to put archers. But this…" —he jabbed a calloused finger at the river design— "…this looks like someone dropped a plate of noodles on the map."
"It's called a canal network," Narasimha said dryly. "Very advanced noodles."
Gosayi Venkanna, sitting cross-legged on a woven mat, spoke mildly.
"First, build a house your people can look to," he said. "Then build a river their grandchildren will bless you for."
He gestured between the two.
"Show me."
❖ II. The Mansion That Wasn't Just a Mansion
The old Uyyalawada residence had been:
sturdy,
functional,
built for a smaller era.
Rooms were cramped.
Outer defenses were adequate against bandits, not against future cannon.
The inner courtyards could host festivals, but not councils of chiefs, merchants, and mystics.
"This house grew like a village hut that kept getting new rooms added," Narasimha said. "We need something… designed."
"Designed for what?" Ayyappa asked.
"For two faces," Narasimha replied. "One for the world—dignity, power, the message that 'Uyyalawada is no mere village darbar.' Another for our work—hidden passages, map rooms, training yards, armouries, Trinetra nests."
He rolled out the plan.
Even Venkanna's brows rose slightly.
The design blended:
Rayalaseema fort style: thick outer walls, bastions at corners, central keep.
Vijayanagara and Mysore influences: pillared mandapas, ornate halls, water channels through courtyards.
Subtle innovations:
angled walls to better deflect cannon fire,
internal corridors linking key points for rapid movement,
hidden trapdoors to underground rooms where maps and sensitive documents could vanish if British "inspectors" arrived.
At the heart of the complex, he placed:
a Sabha Mandapam (Assembly Hall):
broad, high-ceilinged,
carved pillars showing not only gods and kings, but farmers, artisans, and ships,
a dais where he could sit not on some distant throne, but just above eye-level—enough for authority, not enough for arrogance.
Behind it, hidden, he placed:
the expanded Map & War Room,
Trinetra's inner chamber with pigeon cotes, coded-ink desks, and small alcoves where agents could slip in and out unseen.
Veera Reddy, examining the sketch, grunted approvingly.
"This looks like a fort that pretends to be only a mansion," he said.
"Exactly," Narasimha replied.
Avuku Raju, when he saw it later, clapped him on the back.
"You're building a king's nest," he said. "Careful, or people will start calling you Maharaja."
"Let them call me what they like," Narasimha said. "As long as they bring their grain and their trust, not their crowns."
✢ III. Stones, Labour, and an Economic Miracle
Building such a complex could easily have become a drain—hoarding wealth into stone while villages starved.
Narasimha refused.
"If this house rises," he told his council, "it must lift hands with it, not squeeze them."
So he wove the construction into his economic reforms:
1. Local Labour First
Every able mason, carpenter, sculptor, and labourer from allied villages got priority contracts.
Wages were fair, paid partly in coin, partly in grain.
Young apprentices were taken on and paid to learn.
Result:
money circulated locally,
skills improved,
families fed themselves while building the very walls that would one day protect them.
2. Material Sourcing as Policy
Stone came from quarries where worker treatment was quietly monitored by Trinetra.
Timber from sustainable groves, not forests being stripped bare by Company greed.
Lime and bricks from villages whose kilns were upgraded with better designs (thanks to that Scottish engineer the Sangha had folded into its ranks).
3. Craft-Guild Strengthening
Narasimha revived and formalized shilpi guilds:
sculptors given commissions not only for religious motifs, but for civic imagery—ploughs, books, spinning wheels, ships.
carpenters worked on reinforced doors and also on new grain-storage boxes for nearby villages.
"That door," he told one craftsman, "should withstand not just thieves, but one irritated British officer kicking it."
The man grinned and added an extra beam.
4. Design as Messaging
The outer façade bore:
lotuses,
lions,
deities,
but also:
scenes of farmers irrigating fields,
women teaching children,
ships riding monsoon waves.
"Let them see," he said, "that this house knows who truly keeps it standing."
British eyes, when they visited, saw only:
"A larger zamindar residence. Quite impressive for the interior. Natives enjoying some prosperity, apparently."
They did not see:
how each wage slip translated into loyalty,
how each carved lion reminded the people who their protector was,
how hidden arrow slits and reinforced basements made the mansion a proto-fort.
The construction itself generated:
demand for food,
demand for cloth,
demand for tools.
Uyyalawada's markets swelled.
Traders whispered:
"If you want steady work, go where the lion builds."
The economic miracle of Chapter 24 was not a sudden waterfall of gold.
It was:
hundreds of small wages,
dozens of new skills,
a stabilizing centre of stone and faith.
❖ IV. The First Lines of Polavaram
If the mansion-fort was his heart, the mad river sketch was his attempt at drawing arteries.
On a long table, weighted with stones, lay a map of the Godavari basin and surrounding regions.
Narasimha had marked:
the current course of the Godavari,
seasonal flooding zones,
existing tanks and anicuts built by older dynasties,
paths where future canals might snake, spilling life into dry lands.
At the top of the map, in one corner, a word was written in his hand:
Polavaram
To most, it was just a village, a region.
To him, it was the potential anchor for a grand project:
A barrage / dam that could:
tame destructive floods,
store water,
feed a web of canals stretching deep into Andhra's fields,
one day link river routes so internal trade was less dependent on British-dominated ports.
"We will not see it finished in our youth," he told his council. "Perhaps not even in my first century."
Hanumantha raised a brow.
"First century, he says," the elder muttered. "Listen to him talk about his age like seasons."
"But," Narasimha continued, "if we do not draw its bones now, no one will. When our kingdom is more open, when we have more engineers and more wealth, we can begin digging. For now, we plan."
He called in:
the Scottish engineer fascinated by canals,
Indian temple architects who understood water flow from building tanks,
old farmers whose instincts about soil and slope were sharper than any book.
They gathered around the map.
The engineer, Angus McLeod, scratched at his beard.
"You're thinking like those madmen who draw railway lines on napkins in Calcutta," he said. "Except your lines carry water, not steam."
"Steam can be stopped by broken rails," Narasimha replied. "Rivers remember. Once you carve them right, they keep flowing."
An old farmer, chewing on a twig, pointed at a line.
"There," he said. "If you send too much water down this slope, it will eat the banks. You must build small tanks to catch and slow it."
A temple architect added:
"If you use certain stone alignments, you can reduce wear on foundations. We learned that from old Kakatiya works. They built tanks our grandfathers still bless."
Angus leaned over, impressed.
"This is… advanced," he admitted. "In London, some men talk of such things. They do not listen to farmers or temple builders. They should."
They began to sketch:
sluice designs,
step-down canal gradients,
reservoir placements,
possible labour mobilization models that didn't resemble slavery.
"This," Sri said, watching, "is not just a river project. It's… a generational promise."
"Exactly," Narasimha said softly. "One day, when the British are a memory and flying iron suits argue with thunder gods, farmers here will still need water. Let's give them something that outlives both empires and heroes."
In Kamar-Taj, the watching sorcerer noted the anomalous surge of coordinated intellectual effort around the Godavari on his inner map.
"Interesting," he murmured. "He is drawing a pattern in water that might one day echo energy lines. Terrans have… instincts."
✢ V. Wedding Preparations: The True Terror
While Narasimha played with bricks and rivers, another construction project advanced in parallel, much to his dismay:
Wedding preparations.
The alliance with Mysore had moved well after the first meeting with Kaveri.
Letters flowed:
formal ones between courts,
pragmatic ones between Diwan and Ramu,
and a few cautiously warm, sharp-edged ones between the lion and the river themselves.
Dates were debated.
Astrologers argued.
Matrimonial rituals were drafted thick enough to crush an elephant.
One morning in the inner hall, Narasimha found himself cornered by:
Seethamma,
Lakshmamma,
Sri,
and two experienced aunties whose sole superpower seemed to be organizing other people's lives.
"Simha," Seethamma began, "we must discuss arrangements."
"I thought arrangements were being handled quite well without my interference," he tried.
Lakshmamma smiled dangerously.
"Sit," she said.
He sat.
"First," one aunty said, "guest list."
Narasimha winced.
"Can we not just invite… everyone?" he suggested weakly.
"Everyone?" Seethamma scoffed. "You want half of South India here? Feed them for ten days? Are you secretly working for British grain traders?"
Sri smothered a laugh.
"We will keep it balanced," Lakshmamma said. "Family, allied chiefs, key merchants, some saints. Also, some British will expect an invitation."
"At my wedding?" he protested.
"They will look for slight if not included," she said pragmatically. "We will invite a small number. Put them in a corner with bland food."
"Fine," he sighed. "Hide them near the pickle jars."
"Second," the other aunty said, "ceremonies. Mysore does some different things. We must blend traditions. There will be Nischitartham (engagement), Pellikuthuru, Kalyanam, and Mysore's own river blessings."
"That sounds like at least forty-five different times I have to sit still in silk," Narasimha muttered.
"You stand while being shot at but are afraid of turmeric and flowers?" Sri raised a brow.
"Bullets are honest," he said. "They do not require me to smile for hours."
Seethamma whacked him lightly with her stick.
"You will sit," she decreed. "You will smile. You will not look like someone being marched to the gallows. That poor girl is leaving her home for you. The least you can do is look pleased."
He sobered.
At that, resistance softened.
"I am pleased," he said quietly. "It's not that. It's just… large gatherings make me itch. Too many eyes. Too many expectations."
Lakshmamma patted his hand.
"So you are comfortable facing death," she summarized, "but not aunties asking when they will get grandchildren."
"Exactly," he said. "You understand me, Amma."
They laughed.
"Third," Sri said, eyes gleaming mischievously, "clothing."
He groaned.
"No," he said. "Not discussion about colours. Please."
"You cannot wear the same two dhotis you terrorize British in," Sri replied. "We will have proper pattu vastralu (silk garments). Maybe some Mysore silk added—political fashion."
"I am being weaponized as a clothes-hanger," he muttered.
From the doorway, Raghava called out,
"Dora, a message from Mysore about dowry discussions."
Narasimha yelped.
"No dowry," he shouted back instinctively. "Write immediately: we don't want a coin. If they insist, tell them to send books and engineers. Or pepper. Pepper is acceptable."
The aunties exchanged amused glances.
"See?" one whispered to Lakshmamma. "This one has some sense. He will not make our girl's house feel like they bought him."
High above, in Vaikuntha, the Tridevi watched the chaos.
Lakshmi laughed outright.
"This," she said, "brings me more joy than his naval maps."
Parvati nodded.
"His fear of wedding rituals is… adorable," she said.
Saraswati added,
"And reassuring. A man more nervous about emotional entanglements than sword fights is unlikely to become a cold tyrant."
Vishnu cleared his throat.
"At least he is not chasing five women at once," he murmured.
Lakshmi gave him a sideways look.
"Unlike some people," she said pointedly.
He had the decency to look away, humming.
❖ VI. Kaveri's View
In Mysore, Kaveri was fighting her own battles.
Her attendants surrounded her with:
saree samples,
jewellery options,
ceremony explanations.
Her mother gently but firmly vetoed her suggestion to wear light cotton to at least one function.
"You are a princess," the queen said. "Not a devotee at a small temple festival."
Kaveri sighed.
In private, with her closest companion, she let herself grumble.
"Do you think he is also being drowned in silk and turmeric?" she asked.
Her friend giggled.
"Reports say Uyyalawada's women are not gentle when preparing their men," she replied. "I suspect your lion is being scrubbed like a sacrificial goat."
Kaveri smiled wickedly.
"Good," she said. "He should suffer equally."
Letters still passed between them—carefully worded enough for elder eyes, yet layered with humour.
In one, Narasimha wrote:
"They are building a house and a dam on my time and now apparently a wedding platform as well. If I disappear, know that I drowned under garlands, not in the Godavari."
She wrote back:
"If you flee, I will personally come to Rayalaseema, drag you back by the ear, and then reconsider this alliance. Do not make me travel so far in full jewellery."
He laughed aloud when he read it.
"Ah," he said to Venkanna, "she'll fit in with Avva nicely."
✢ VII. Marvel Watches the Foundations
To the world, these months looked like:
a local chieftain expanding his residence,
a promising marriage alliance forming between two southern houses,
traders prospering under a well-organized zamindar.
To Marvel's wider web of forces, small notes accumulated:
In Kamar-Taj:
"Subject U.N.R.'s base of operations is undergoing significant architectural reinforcement. Energy patterns stable. A large water-project design has begun—potential future intersection with mystical leylines."
Among Eternals, one observer wrote in a private log:
"The Rayalaseema anomaly continues to build structures both physical and social at a rate exceeding typical human leadership. He is beginning to think in centuries, not decades. Watch his water plans; those may matter when climate shifts."
No one interfered.
Not yet.
For now, what he built was:
local in appearance,
global in potential.
✵ VIII. Closing of "Stones, Rivers, and Wedding Drums"
By the end of Chapter 24, Uyyalawada's world had quietly transformed:
The old residence was evolving into a mansion-fort—a symbol of stability, a hidden shield, and a nerve centre for coming storms.
The economy around it had surged, not through foreign loans, but through local labour, crafts, and careful contracts, turning stonework into bread and pride.
On maps, the first serious lines of a future Polavaram project had been drawn—designs that would, one day, tame Godavari's moods and feed a kingdom long after emperors and superheroes changed costumes.
The merchant alliance and hidden navy continued to grow, weaving a net across seas that rivalled the East India Company in reach—without sinking into slavery or cruelty.
And in parallel to these grand designs, the most human preparation marched on:
A wedding.
One that would join lion and river, Rayalaseema and Mysore, trade and royalty—
with the groom complaining about turmeric,
the bride sharpening her wit,
and the gods sitting like overexcited elders, gleefully watching their "first child" finally be dragged to the mandapam.
The Deathless Lion was building:
walls to guard,
rivers to nourish,
alliances to anchor.
Soon, he would be asked to do something far harder:
Build a life with another person beside him…
while still carrying the destiny of Bharat
and the weight of a Marvel-touched world.
The mansion would rise.
The rivers would wait.
The wedding drums were beginning to beat—
softly now,
but destined to echo down centuries,
all the way to a future where an immortal king in a modern suit would still remember,
with a wince and a smile,
just how much turmeric they used that first time.
✦ End of Chapter 24 – "Stones, Rivers, and Wedding Drums" ✦