✦ I. Not a Kingdom, but a Web
The new Map Room finally smelled less of fresh lime and more of ink.
Scrolls had found their places on shelves.Pins and coloured strings stitched across the wall-sized map.In the faint lamplight, it looked less like geography and more like a spider's dream.
Narasimha stood before it with his arms folded, head tilted slightly.
Raghava, Sri, Ayyappa, and Venkanna were with him.
On the painted landmass of South India, small markers glowed in lamplight:
brown stones for chiefs and chieftains,
blue for traders,
green for forests and tribal clans,
yellow for border lords,
and a few white stones offshore where ships clustered.
"We cannot fight the British as just Uyyalawada," Narasimha said quietly. "A single claw cannot bring down an elephant. But a web of claws, pulling from different sides…"
"Webs do not pull," Sri corrected absently. "They hold, until the prey struggles and ties itself tighter."
"Fine," he amended. "We need silk, then. Across all of South."
Venkanna's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Tell me," he said, "what do you see when you look at this map?"
"Mist," Narasimha said honestly. "Too much of our strength is still isolated. Mysore in its court, Tamil traders in their bazaars, Nizam's men behind their walls, tribes in their forests. Everyone's fighting their own small battles. So the British wins the larger one."
He took a deep breath.
"I want," he said slowly, "a web from Mysore hills to Tamil coasts, from Nizam's borders to Rayalaseema rocks, through tribal forests. Not one banner, not one throne—but one understanding: 'If they push us too far, we pull together.'"
"And how," Ayyappa asked, "do you pull together people who don't like each other?"
"With diplomacy," Narasimha replied. "The art of convincing everyone that helping each other is actually helping themselves."
Sri smirked.
"So," she said, "you become a travelling marriage-broker for half of the South."
He sighed.
"Apparently," he muttered, "the gods decided that my true destiny is arranging alliances and attending ceremonies."
"Including your own," Venkanna reminded.
"Don't remind me," he groaned.
But his eyes were already scanning the markers.
He tapped four regions in turn:
Mysore chiefs.
Tamil trading guilds.
The Nizam's border lords.
Tribal clans threading the hills and forests.
"These," he said, "we begin with."
❖ II. Mysore: Lions and Hills
The alliance with Mysore was no longer just a polite discussion.
Princess Kaveri's name was now spoken in Uyyalawada's inner hall with a kind of half-teasing respect.
The Wodeyar court had, in turn, begun to take the Rayalaseema lion seriously—not just as a rich zamindar, but as a potential pillar.
On a cool morning, Narasimha set out toward Mysore again.
This time, not as semi-unknown suitor, but as:
betrothed,
chieftain,
and quiet architect of something larger.
The journey was a blend of ritual and reconnaissance:
official escort from Mysore met them halfway,
Trinetra watchers slid between caravan shadows,
Samudra Vyapara Sangha men checked on trade posts along the route.
When he entered Mysore's palace once more, the hall glittered.
The Wodeyar king greeted him warmly.
"Future son-in-law," he said with a smile that still held a king's calculation, "our house is yours."
"And ours open to you, Appa," Narasimha replied, using the familiar with just the right degree of respect. "Between Kaveri's river and my rocks, we may manage to keep some British boots out of our fields."
Some courtiers twitched at his bluntness.
The king laughed.
Beside him, Kaveri hid a small smirk behind her veil of decorum.
That evening, in a more private chamber, the true work began.
Gathered there were:
several Mysore sub-chiefs,
a few influential jagirdars from nearby districts,
the Diwan,
and Kaveri herself, sitting slightly behind, listening.
Narasimha spread a small, less-detailed map between them.
"I am not here," he said, "to tell you to bow to my house. I am not mad. I am here to suggest something… practical."
He pointed to a chain of hills.
"These border regions," he said, "where your lands touch Company-controlled zones—taxes rise, then fall, then rise again; new laws appear; your men are summoned for 'joint patrols' and return with less dignity each time. Yes?"
Murmurs of agreement—some bitter, some cautious.
"And here," he tapped another path, "roads they want to build. For 'development'. But we know: roads built by them serve them first. They will move troops faster than grain."
A stern sub-chief spoke, suspicion edged in his voice.
"You are young," he said. "You speak like an old man who has seen too many treaties. What do you want from us?"
"Only this," Narasimha said evenly. "When you hear of a new British policy, a caravan tax, a recruiting drive, a new fort… you send word. When I hear of an opportunity that benefits Mysore—like a surplus grain market, a chance to trade through my Sangha ships, a possible shift in British postings—I send word."
He looked each of them in the eye.
"No one takes oath to my flag," he continued. "We are not building a formal 'confederacy' with big seals for them to ban. We are building a habbit. A habit of whispering to each other before we sign anything stamped with London ink."
Kaveri watched the play of expressions:
one man relieved,
another calculating,
one old lord visibly skeptical but intrigued by mention of higher profits.
The Diwan interjected.
"Samudra Vyapara Sangha already carries our pepper and cloth at lower costs than many," he said. "If this continues, that alone is worth listening to."
"And if the Company pushes you toward some impossible demand," Narasimha added, "like forcing new levies in famine years—send word. Sometimes… an unfortunate accident on a distant route delays these demands."
An old chief narrowed his eyes.
"You are offering us… an invisible staff," he said. "Support without banners. Protection without open claims."
"Yes," Narasimha said. "Because open alliances are easy targets. I am asking you to be part of a hidden understanding instead: when one of us is squeezed, others quietly loosen the noose."
One by one, some nodded.
Not all.
He hadn't expected all.
When they left that chamber, there were no signed treaties.
No grand proclamations.
But:
a few agreed code phrases for letters,
a shared set of merchants who would carry messages in their "accounts,"
and a sense that, if things turned ugly, a man in Rayalaseema would not watch Mysore burn in silence.
Later, as they walked in a garden lit by oil lamps, Kaveri glanced at him sideways.
"You made half of them like you," she said. "You made the other half worried. Good. It means they are thinking."
"And you?" he asked.
"I am still deciding whether you are a lion," she replied, "or a particularly ambitious spider."
He grinned.
"Both," he said. "Depends on who is looking."
✢ III. Tamil Traders: Coins and Conscience
If Mysore offered spears and hills, Tamil lands offered ports and coins.
The Sangha was already deep in trade with Tamil merchants.
But trade was not alliance.
Trade turned on profit.
Alliance turned on trust.
In Nagapattinam—a port where sea-winds carried the smells of fish, spice, and distant lands—Narasimha met with a small group of powerful traders in a back room of a busy choultry.
These were not farmers.
They wore:
crisp veshtis,
fine angavastrams,
gold rings and thick chains,
forehead marks neat and proud.
Ledgers were their weapons.
Numbers their battlefield.
"You move ships," one of them, R. Muthuswami Chettiar, said bluntly, "we move money. Between us, we can raise or sink kingdoms. Why should we link our fortunes to your political dreams?"
"Because," Narasimha said calmly, "if the British decide tomorrow that your wealth is a threat, they will crush you alone. If they decide that my estate is troublesome, they will crush me. If, however, our bags of grain and chests of coin are tangled together, tearing one risks spilling all. That makes them… careful."
Another trader, older, tapped his ledger.
"We prosper now under Company protection," he pointed out. "Their ships guard some routes. Their courts settle some disputes. Are we supposed to risk steady profit for your… ideals?"
Narasimha did not flinch.
"I am not asking you to stop trading with them," he said. "Trade. Sell. Make money. Just… do not give them monopoly over your dependence."
He leaned forward.
"Think of it this way," he said. "You already diversify your cargo. Do not put all your ships in one harbour. Diversify your political risk too."
Muthuswami considered.
"Speak plainly," he said. "What are you offering?"
"Three things," Narasimha said, ticking them off on his fingers.
"One: Credit safety. When British policy suddenly cuts one route, Sangha ships and allied inland routes will shift to compensate. You will not be stranded with warehouses of unsold goods."
"Two: Information. When we hear of new tariffs, war in far lands, crop failures, we share. You adjust early, not after loss."
"Three: Ethical shield."
That last made them blink.
"Ethical?" one repeated, suspicious.
"Yes," he said. "You already know my Sangha refuses slave cargo. If you join our inner ring, you will not be forced into those trades even under Company pressure. And if you stand firm, you will not stand alone."
There was a long silence.
These men were not saints.
They had done business under harsh systems before.
But none of them liked the idea of being forced into dealing in human flesh.
Finally, the oldest trader spoke, voice slow.
"My grandfather," he said, "watched East India men ruin a weaving town by flooding it with Manchester cloth. He told me, 'Never trust anyone whose profit depends on your people staying weak.'"
He looked at Narasimha.
"You speak of profit and dharma in one breath," he said. "Strange combination. But perhaps… necessary now."
They did not sign charter papers.
They shared oaths:
not on crown or flag,
but on grain, rice, salt.
"On the understanding," Muthuswami said, palm over a bowl of rice, "that we place profit not above people, and that we will not abandon each other when storms come."
"So be it," Narasimha replied, doing the same.
From that day, Tamil trade guilds in the Sangha's inner ring:
shared more data,
aligned prices in ways that denied British middlemen sudden windfalls,
quietly refused certain contracts even when forced, knowing that somewhere in Rayalaseema, a lion was planning backup routes.
❖ IV. Nizam's Border Lords: Mirrors and Knives
Not all alliances were warm.
Some were like eating with a knife in each hand.
To the north, where Nizam's dominions brushed against Company territories and Rayalaseema:
forts watched each other across dry stretches,
jagirdars sat in halls that smelled of incense and old politics,
and loyalty was a game played in three directions: toward the Nizam, the Company, and survival.
Narasimha rode to such a border fort under neutral flags.
His escort was modest but disciplined.
Trinetra had already mapped:
which lord was greedy,
which bitter,
which secretly admired anyone who rejected the Company's yoke.
He had chosen to meet Mir Fazl-ud-din Khan, a mid-ranking border lord whose men had fought bravely in past wars and who was known to resent Company "advisors."
The fort was stone and shadow.
Inside, the audience hall was cool, scented with attar and tobacco.
Mir Fazl-ud-din sat on a raised seat, turban immaculate, beard neatly combed, gaze sharp like a hawk watching a rival predator.
"So," he said, as Narasimha bowed politely, "the Lion of Uyyalawada comes to my poor little nest. Should I be honoured or worried?"
"Both," Narasimha said frankly. "Honour, because I do not travel for frivolities. Worry, because if I have come, it means you sit at a crossroads that others will soon wish to trample."
Mir laughed, a booming sound that filled the hall and did not touch his eyes.
"You speak with an old man's tongue in a young man's throat," he said. "Sit."
They spoke of:
crops,
recent Company emissaries,
the Nizam's latest favours and tantrums.
Only after the third cup of spiced tea did Mir lean forward.
"You are building… something," he said. "My informers tell me your house grows, your merchants grow, your… influence grows. You do not yet call yourself king. Wise. The British hate that word."
"I am a chieftain," Narasimha said. "Labels do not change duty."
Mir's gaze sharpened.
"Duty to whom?" he asked. "To your family? Your district? Your people? Your gods? Or your… ambitions?"
"To dharma," Narasimha replied. "Everything else is details."
Mir snorted.
"Dangerous answer," he said. "Men who say 'dharma' often mean 'my convenience wrapped in piety'."
"I don't have that luxury," Narasimha said quietly. "The gods have made it… complicated."
Mir studied him.
Finally, he chuckled again.
"Very well," he said. "What do you want from me, O dharmic lion?"
"Not your soul," Narasimha answered. "Just your ears and your roads."
He explained:
"When Company officials whisper to lure your men with more pay for their wars, tell me. When they quietly build posts too close to your villages, tell me. When they offer you guns on credit, tell me."
"And in return?" Mir asked.
"In return," Narasimha said, "you get access to Sangha credit if Company changes coin-taxes on imported goods. You get routes to sell your grain and horses that do not depend solely on British-controlled markets. And if they ever decide you are expendable… you will not stand alone."
Mir's silence lengthened.
"You must understand," he said at last, "I am not free. I owe the Nizam my allegiance. The Company my public politeness. I cannot openly side with you."
"I am not asking you to," Narasimha said. "I am asking you to side with your people. And to let me know when those two paths clash."
Mir laughed softly.
"You speak as if we are already allies," he said.
"No," Narasimha corrected. "I speak as if we are both men who dislike being pawns. That is enough for now."
In the end, they parted with:
courteous words,
small gifts,
and a discreet set of code phrases for future letters.
Officially, Mir remained a loyal border noble.
Unofficially:
certain Company caravans found their "shortcuts" blocked by sudden troop movements elsewhere,
grain meant for exploitative contracts somehow found better-paying buyers through Sangha contacts,
and rumours of Narasimha's reach grew in the border taverns.
✢ V. Tribal Clans: The Forest Pact
The last and perhaps most important part of the web did not live in courts or ports.
It lived under canopies.
In hills and forests, tribal clans had watched outsiders march through for centuries.
They knew:
secret paths,
hidden streams,
tempers of tigers and men.
They also knew that:
British surveyors were beginning to mark their trees,
tax-men were trying to count what should not be counted,
hunters came not to live with the forest, but to strip it.
One such clan lived in the Nallamala forests.
They had watched Uyyalawada caravans pass at a distance.
They had quietly warned off bandits once, as a favour owed to some forgotten kindness in Ramu's time.
Now, Narasimha asked to meet them.
He did not ride in with a grand escort.
Just:
himself,
Ayyappa,
Raghava,
a handful of trusted men,
and two local guides who had kin in the clan.
They left horses at the forest edge.
Inside, the air cooled.
Birds called.
Roots twisted.
After some time, a figure stepped onto the narrow path.
An older woman, bare-footed, bow in hand, eyes bright with suspicion.
Behind her, several youths melted out of the trees, weapons ready.
"This is our house," she said. "You have walked many steps inside it."
Narasimha bowed, hands folded.
"I would have come shorter if the trees were closer together, Akka," he said. "But the forest insists on being wide."
A faint twitch of mouth.
Not quite a smile.
"You are the stone-lion boy," she said. "The one whose men do not hunt more than they need. Why are you here?"
"To ask for help," he said plainly. "And to offer help."
Her gaze grew sharper.
"You bring soldiers," she said. "Help that comes with boots is expensive."
"These men," he replied, "are my hands, not my boots. I did not come to plant flags. I came because a time will come when British soldiers will push deeper into your trees. When they will count your game, your honey, your very breath in their revenue books."
"We know," she said, voice hard. "We have already tasted their words. Sweet then sour."
"Then listen," he said softly. "I am building a web. Not one to trap you. One that lets me move quickly when danger falls. I need paths that no map shows. Places where men can vanish and appear elsewhere."
"Ambushes," Ayyappa translated bluntly.
"Yes," Narasimha said. "And safe houses. And watchers. You can move through hill and tree without leaving mark. You can carry messages faster than horses in this land."
The woman studied him for a long time.
"And what do we get," she asked, "for letting your web touch our branches?"
"Three things," he answered, counting again.
"One: respect. No taxes on your gathering. No forced labour. No 'civilizing' missions. You stay as you choose, not as some sahib's book dictates."
Her brows ticked up slightly.
"Two: protection. When surveyors come, when timber men try to cut too much, when soldiers hunt too near your heartland—send word. My men, or my news, or my ships' gold will try to push them elsewhere."
"Three: voice. When I speak to chiefs and traders about roads and canals, I will speak of your rivers and your animals too. You will not be invisible in those plans."
He paused.
"And," he added, "your children who wish can learn letters and numbers in our schools. Those who don't can stay with their bow. Knowledge is not a chain. It is a tool. You will choose how to use it."
Silence.
Then she nodded once.
"You talk too much," she said. "Like town men. But…" she looked at the guides, who nodded vouching for him. "…your eyes do not look at our trees as loot."
She raised her bow slightly, then lowered it—a gesture of acceptance.
"We will show you some paths," she said. "Not all. That comes later, if you keep your word."
"That is enough to begin," he replied.
From that day:
Trinetra gained forest routes few maps could dream of,
tribal archers quietly joined some "bandit suppression" efforts in ways British never saw,
and one more set of voices was woven into the invisible alliance.
❖ VI. Heaven Sees the Web
Back in the Map Room, weeks later, Narasimha stood before the wall again.
Now, new threads glittered:
a thicker line south-west toward Mysore,
small curved paths toward ports of Tamil lands,
dotted connections to certain forts on Nizam's rim,
faint green arcs through hill and forest.
Sri tied one last string and stepped back.
"There," she said. "From above, it might finally start to look like something."
Venkanna murmured,
"Not a kingdom."
"A nervous system," Sri said. "Injury in one limb, the rest feels it. That's what we're building."
Outside the mortal roof, far beyond, the Mukti of Vaikuntha watched the same map in different light.
Lakshmi traced the threads with a fingertip of radiance.
"From one village chieftain's seat," she said softly, "to a web touching half the South. Not bad for a boy who still cries about paperwork."
Parvati smiled.
"He is turning alliances into something more than convenience," she said. "He is building obligation. Not enforced by law, but by shared fear and shared hope."
Saraswati's eyes gleamed.
"This is what I cherish," she said. "Knowledge moving like blood—through merchants, kings, tribes, border lords. Not sitting in one dusty granth."
Maheshwara rumbled.
"When war comes in earnest," he said, "he will not stand as a solitary hero on a hill, waving a sword for ballads. He will stand as the centre of a network of wills. That is… truer to dharma."
Vishnu, gazing ahead through time, could already see:
Kingsman agents in tailored suits, tracing old rumours of an "Indian contact" who knew too much,
RAW officers in the 20th century reading archival hints of unknown networks in Rayalaseema,
SHIELD analysts frowning at certain anomalies in India's "internal stability patterns."
"He is doing my work for me," Vishnu murmured, amused. "Preserving balance, one polite conversation and one stubborn pact at a time."
Brahma added to his notes:
U.N.R. – Alliance web across Mysore, Tamil trade, Nizam border lords, and tribal clans now functional. Personal diplomacy as binding agent. British perception: fragmented. Actual: increasingly integrated resistance infrastructure.
✢ VII. The Tired Spider
That night, in the inner courtyard of his still-growing house, Narasimha sat on a low step, barefoot, hair loose, a plate of half-eaten food beside him.
The lamplight was soft.
Cicadas sang.
Ramu came and sat down beside him, joints creaking.
"You look like you fought ten battles," his father remarked.
"I did," Narasimha said. "All with words. Much worse."
Ramu chuckled.
"So," he asked, "how goes your grand plan to tie the whole South together?"
"Slowly," Narasimha replied. "Some chiefs agreed to talk. Some traders to share. Some lords to whisper. Some tribes to guide. It's like trying to weave a rope while everyone keeps pulling their own strands."
"And you?" Ramu asked. "What are you in this weaving?"
He thought for a moment.
"Exhausted," he said. "And apparently a full-time marriage broker. I spent half this month convincing people to marry their interests to each other instead of marrying their daughters to some Company dog."
Ramu laughed aloud.
"Remember this," he said. "When you were a boy, you said you wanted to be 'useful'. This is it. This is what useful feels like."
"Like being trampled by cows while trying to guide them," Narasimha muttered.
Lakshmamma walked by, overhearing.
"And yet," she said, "you still find time to complain about your own wedding preparations. Be grateful. The alliances you are building outside will matter only if the home you build inside has someone to shout at you when you try to carry the world alone."
He smiled.
"Don't worry, Amma," he said. "Between you, Avva, and Kaveri, I am very sure my ego will never grow too big."
Sri called from the corridor.
"Simha!" she said. "Tomorrow we need to finish the revised code phrases for Mysore and the Tamil guilds."
He groaned.
Ramu rose slowly.
"I will leave you to your spider-work," his father said. "Remember, a web is good. But don't forget to live somewhere in it, not just hang at the centre with sore legs."
As he left, Narasimha leaned back, looking at the stars.
"Gods," he muttered, "I hope one day, after all this, I can just sit under a tree with my wife and talk nonsense for an entire afternoon without someone handing me a crisis."
Far above, Vishnu chuckled.
"We'll see," he murmured. "You chose a big yoke, child. But perhaps… we can spare you a few afternoons."
✵ VIII. Closing of "The Threads Beneath the Crown"
By the end of Chapter 26, something subtle—but monumental—had changed in the South:
Mysore chiefs knew that, behind their hills, a Rayalaseema chieftain would listen if they were squeezed too hard.
Tamil traders had woven their ledgers into the Sangha's broader design, agreeing—tentatively but sincerely—to put people slightly above pure profit.
Nizam's border lords had gained a new, shadowy correspondent who offered alternatives to Company dependence without asking them to betray their own sovereign outright.
Tribal clans in Nallamala and beyond had gained a distant but determined ally who saw their forests as more than timber stock.
No banners declared this.
No coins were minted.
No bard yet sang, "Behold, the Alliance of the South."
But on Narasimha's wall, threads had thickened.
The lion was no longer just fortifying his own den.
He was weaving threads beneath his crown:
threads of trade and trust,
of grudging respect and shared fear,
of quiet promises made in halls, ports, forts, and forests.
One day, when the South would tremble with revolt and British cannons thunder, that web would decide whether chaos shattered everything—
or whether, for the first time in centuries, the land would pull together.
For now, it existed as:
a priest's extra line in a letter,
a trader's subtle price-shift,
a tribal arrow turned aside from a Sangha caravan,
a Mysore chief's decision to delay signing a bad treaty until a reply came from Uyyalawada.
The Deathless Lion had not yet roared.
He was still smiling politely, managing paperwork, enduring turmeric jokes, and attending diplomacy feasts.
But beneath all that, chapter by chapter,
Bharat's hidden king
was tying a web strong enough to catch
both empire and the coming Marvel storms.
✦ End of Chapter 26 – "The Threads Beneath the Crown" ✦