✦ ⭑ I. A Letter with Two Faces
The monsoon that year arrived with more mood than water.
Clouds brewed and rumbled, then drifted away sulking.
Rain came in fits: too much in an hour, too little in a week.
In the Map Room at Uyyalawada, the climate was no less uneven.
Narasimha had just finished arguing with one set of elders about water-sharing and another set about military drills when Raghava walked in with a sealed letter.
The seal was familiar:
Wax of a deep blue, impressed with a small crest—
a lion passant and three stars.
Edwin Fairfax.
"From our English philosopher?" Sri asked from her corner, quill still scratching tallies.
"Or our English headache," Ayyappa muttered.
Narasimha accepted the letter.
The paper was good quality, the script careful.
ToUyyalawada Narasimha Reddy,whom certain Company men call 'that overly clever rayalseema landlord'—and whom I have the honour to call friend,
I write from Madras in a state of some agitation.
There has been an incident—several, in fact—that I would speak of in person, if you will host me. Matters of revenue, force, and what your scriptures would call 'adharma'. I find myself… increasingly alien in the company I am meant to keep.
I will travel under the pretext of inspecting inland trade conditions and potential cooperation with loyal zamindars. You qualify, I believe, on both counts, at least on paper.
If you are willing, I request the hospitality of your house for some days. I promise to behave with all the manners my grandmother attempted to hammer into me.
Yours in uneasy conscience,Edwin Fairfax
Narasimha folded the letter slowly.
Sri watched his face.
"Well?" she asked.
"He is coming," Narasimha said. "And he sounds… troubled."
"More than usual?" Ayyappa said. "I thought 'troubled' was the default state of a decent man working for the Company."
"Troubled enough to admit it in writing," Narasimha replied. "That's new."
Venkanna, who had been quietly reading a shelf of temple records, turned.
"He has seen something," the Guru said. "Something he cannot swallow and cannot spit out."
"And now," Sri added, "he comes to you. The lion counselling the hound sent to hunt him."
Narasimha exhaled.
"He is not a hound," he said. "He is… someone trying to be a gentleman in a kennel. No wonder he smells bad days."
He looked at Ayyappa.
"Prepare guest quarters," he said. "The good ones. And tell the cooks to be careful with spice. If we burn his tongue off, it will be harder to discuss morality."
"And security?" Ayyappa asked.
"The usual," Narasimha replied. "No armed men in his face. That will only make him defensive. But every approach road watched. We are hosting a friend—who works for our enemy. Let us not forget either half."
❖ II. An Englishman in Lion's Country
Edwin Fairfax arrived two days later.
His carriage rolled through Uyyalawada's new front gate with Company flags discreetly furled.
He stepped down in the courtyard blinking against the brightness.
He was dressed as befitted a British gentleman in the tropics:
light-coloured coat,
crisp shirt,
trousers cut just so,
hat in hand,
but the dark circles under his eyes and the tightness of his jaw did not belong to a man on a comfortable inspection tour.
He looked up at the new mansion-front and let out a low whistle.
"You have been… busy," he said as Narasimha approached.
"Stones grow like children," Narasimha replied. "Slowly, expensively, and with many complaints." He smiled. "Welcome, Edwin. Our house is at your service. Our curry… may not be as polite."
Edwin managed a small, weary chuckle.
"If your cooks have mercy," he said, "I will attempt bravery."
Behind him, his clerk and two Indian assistants bowed.
Trinetra eyes had already marked them, weighed them, and quietly sorted them into "cautious," "genuine," and "one badly hides curiosity."
As they were led to guest quarters, Edwin could not help but notice:
the elegant simplicity of the outer hall—less ostentatious than some Hyderabad palaces, more solid than many Company bungalows;
guards in dhoti and turban standing alert but not glaring;
the way servants moved with practised confidence, not grovelling haste.
"You have built something between a fort and a monastery," he murmured.
"Between a village and a ship," Narasimha corrected. "A place that can stay standing when storms hit."
Later, after baths and a mercifully mild first meal, they sat in a shaded verandah overlooking an inner tank.
Dragonflies hovered.
Children's laughter echoed faintly from another courtyard.
For a time, they spoke of surface matters:
trade volumes,
road conditions,
the state of the last monsoon.
Then Edwin set his cup down very carefully.
"I witnessed something last month," he said. "Several somethings. I find myself… ashamed to share a flag with the men who ordered them."
Narasimha's gaze sharpened.
"Tell me," he said.
✢ III. When a Gentleman Chokes on Empire
Edwin's voice was controlled.
Too controlled.
Like a man forcing each word past a clenched throat.
"In a district not far from here," he began, "a collector I have known for some years—Harwood—decided that revenue shortfalls justified, shall we say, extra efforts."
He described:
how a poor harvest had left villages weak,
how they had petitioned for temporary remission,
how their local headman had even offered personal land as collateral.
"And Harwood," Edwin said, eyes darkening, "laughed."
He had ordered:
cattle seized,
seed grain taken,
several men flogged for "concealing stores."
"They had concealed nothing," Edwin said. "They simply… had nothing more to give. I tried to reason with him. Explained that such measures would damage productivity for years. He told me…"
He paused.
Narasimha waited.
"He told me," Edwin continued, voice low, "that our function here is not to coddle natives, but to extract value before some other power does. That if they die, there are more where they came from. That I was becoming 'soft', 'overly sentimental' and—his exact phrase—'infected by proximity'."
Something in the air cooled.
In the verandah's shadow, Ayyappa's hand flexed unconsciously on his knee.
"And you?" Narasimha asked.
"I wrote a report," Edwin said tiredly. "A strong one. I sent it up the chain. It will disappear into some drawer. Harwood plays cards with the right men."
He looked out at the water, jaw tight.
"In another case," he continued, "a group of sepoys refused to fire on unarmed villagers protesting a new salt rule. They were punished. Publicly. Not severely by our standards—lashings, demotion—but enough to make a… point."
He gave a bitter half-laugh.
"Manners, I was taught, maketh man," he said. "Apparently, they do not maketh Empire."
Narasimha watched him silently for a long moment.
At last he spoke.
"You are angry," he said softly.
"Yes," Edwin replied.
"Good," Narasimha said. "Anger is honest. Better than the cold satisfaction I see in some of your colleagues when they watch men break."
Edwin looked at him sharply.
"You do not seem surprised," he said.
"I have seen worse," Narasimha replied. "In Company colours, in princely colours, sometimes in no colours at all. Power attracts rot. What matters is what the healthy do when they smell it."
Edwin's hands clenched.
"And what would you have me do?" he asked. "Resign? That would accomplish little. Murder Harwood in a ditch? That would satisfy some gods, perhaps, but leave the system intact. Stay and… what? Write sharper reports?"
Narasimha smiled without humour.
"You came halfway across the country to ask a so-called 'native zamindar' for advice on your conscience," he said. "Admit it, Edwin. You are already not the man they think you are."
Edwin exhaled slowly.
"I am… trying to be," he said, "a gentleman. To serve something higher than coin or personal comfort. But the institution I wear insists I serve only its appetite."
He looked at Narasimha with something like pleading masked as sarcasm.
"Your scriptures speak of dharma," he said. "Mine speak of honour. Are they the same? Or am I chasing a ghost?"
❖ IV. The Code in Two Tongues
For a moment, Narasimha said nothing.
Then he rose.
"Walk with me," he said.
They moved along the verandah, down the steps into a side courtyard where soldiers were drilling in silence under Ayyappa's commands.
The men moved:
in tight formations,
then broke,
then flowed around imaginary obstacles.
"Look at them," Narasimha said quietly. "If I order them to strike unarmed farmers tomorrow, how many will obey?"
Edwin watched.
"Some," he said. "Some always obey."
"Yes," Narasimha said. "Some out of fear. Some out of habit. Some because they have convinced themselves that duty is blind."
He turned to Edwin.
"When you say 'gentleman'," he asked, "what do you mean?"
Edwin blinked.
"Good breeding," he began automatically, then stopped himself and shook his head.
"No," he corrected. "Not that. That is just… club talk. I mean—someone who holds himself to a code. Who does not strike the helpless. Who does not lie when silence would suffice. Who keeps his word, even when no one is looking."
Narasimha nodded.
"Dharma in our tongue," he said, "is not a set of rules. It is that inner weight that tells you, 'Do not step on this neck while it's bowed,' even when the world would reward you for it."
He studied Edwin's face.
"You are in a machine that rewards those who step hardest," he said. "So you have three choices."
"Go on," Edwin said.
"One," Narasimha ticked off, "you adapt. You let your anger rust. You learn to speak of deaths as 'unfortunate collateral.' You rise in rank. You become useful to your superiors."
Edwin's jaw tightened.
"Two," he continued, "you flee. Resign. Return home. Tend a garden. Write angry pamphlets no one reads. Save your soul. Abandon those here to their fate."
"And three?" Edwin asked.
"Three," Narasimha said, "you stay. You dig your heels in. You help men who still have a conscience find each other. You build small codes that say, 'Here we do not do certain things, no matter what orders come.' You lose promotions. You gain insomnia. But you sleep knowing you sold less of yourself than others."
Edwin gave a strained smile.
"You make it sound so attractive," he said.
"Truth rarely dresses nicely," Narasimha replied.
They walked a little further.
"Tell me," Narasimha said, "in your world, how is a boy taught to be a gentleman?"
"By mothers," Edwin said automatically. "By grandmothers. By good fathers, if they are fortunate. By certain schools. By the quiet disapproval of those he admires when he behaves rudely."
"Then you must become that disapproving gaze," Narasimha said. "Not alone. You will break. But in company with others."
He looked toward the horizon.
"Right now," he said, "most British officers here know only one language: power. You must teach a second: honour. And not honour tied to monarch, or Company charter. Honour tied to… humanity. Regardless of colour, coin, or creed."
Edwin laughed once, weakly.
"A tall order," he said.
"In my last life," Narasimha said quietly, "I watched stories about men in fine suits with hidden weapons, saving the world between cups of tea and rude jokes. They called themselves secret agents. They had codes. They were… fantasies, yes. But they pointed at a possibility: that men with power could choose to be shields, not blades."
Edwin frowned slightly at the odd phrasing, but let it pass.
"What are you suggesting?" he asked.
"That you begin," Narasimha said, "with something simple. A rule you and your kind keep, even when no order demands it."
He smiled faintly.
"In my court," he said, "my rule is: 'No one leaves more afraid of me than of my injustice.' Fear of my anger is nothing. Fear that I might be unfair? That I will not tolerate."
"And for me?" Edwin asked.
Narasimha thought.
"For you," he said slowly, "start here: 'A gentleman's first loyalty is to those who cannot defend themselves.' If your superiors ask you to act otherwise, you smile, nod, and… fail to be as efficient as they desire."
Edwin exhaled.
"Manners maketh man," he murmured. "But perhaps… compassion keeps him from becoming a monster."
"Exactly," Narasimha said. "Carve it into yourself first. Later, into others. One day, perhaps, into an organization that teaches boys in suits to put innocents above orders."
He did not know yet the name of that future order.
Kingsman.
But the shape of it glimmered.
A hidden circle of men (and eventually, women) who would:
stand aside from governments,
keep their own code,
carry umbrellas and secrets,
and owe something, in their distant bones, to a conversation in a south Indian courtyard between a lion and a tired Englishman.
✢ V. A Shared Oath Over Tea
Later that evening, the two of them sat cross-legged on floor cushions in a smaller inner room.
Between them:
a brass tray,
a pot of spiced tea,
simple snacks.
Edwin had abandoned his coat.
Narasimha had abandoned stiff formality.
They looked, for a moment, like two friends in any village house.
"Let us be childish," Narasimha said suddenly.
"I beg your pardon?" Edwin blinked.
"In our childhood," Narasimha said, "we swear oaths to each other:
'If you tell my grandmother I stole the jaggery, may I never eat mango again.'
Stupid, small, but it binds us."
He poured more tea.
"Let us make an oath now," he said. "Not grand. Just… a rule between us."
Edwin considered.
"You propose," he said.
Narasimha thought for a moment.
"Whenever we have the choice," he said, "between an action that preserves our comfort and one that preserves someone else's dignity, we choose the latter."
Edwin huffed.
"Ambitious," he said.
"Then make it smaller," Narasimha offered. "At least, when we sit in a room where a weaker man is being humiliated, we do not laugh to fit in."
Edwin's eyes flickered.
He thought of past dinners where brown men had been mocked in their presence.
Of times he had smiled weakly, embarrassed, silent.
"That," he said slowly, "I can swear."
He placed his hand, palm down, on the brass tray.
"In the name of… whatever remains decent in me," he said, voice quiet but clear, "I, Edwin Fairfax, swear: I will not partake in cruelty for camaraderie. I will not polish my reputation with another man's humiliation."
Narasimha placed his hand beside his.
"In the name of the dharma that will not let me sleep if I stray too far," he said, "I, Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy, swear: I will not justify my ends by breaking those I claim to protect."
They sat like that a moment, hands on brass, tea steaming between them.
Two men.
Two worlds.
One quiet agreement.
"And," Edwin added suddenly, a spark of his old humour returning, "when we find men who still care about such things, we will… recruit them."
"Not into an army," Narasimha said.
"No," Edwin agreed. "Into a… circle. The sort of circle where a man's worth is not measured by his title, but by how he behaves when no applause is possible."
"A gentleman's circle," Narasimha suggested.
"A king's man, in the old sense," Edwin said.
He didn't yet know he had spoken the seed of a name.
❖ VI. Trinetra Meets the English Mind
Before Edwin left Uyyalawada, Narasimha took a calculated risk.
In the Map Room, with doors closed and guards outside, he showed him—not everything, but enough.
"This," he said, gesturing to the pinned map, "is how I see the land."
Edwin stepped closer, brows rising.
He saw:
coloured threads connecting villages, ports, forts, forests;
markers showing known British posts and their likely next expansions;
notations in Telugu, Tamil, and coded symbols.
"This is…" he began, searching for words.
"Illegally thorough?" Narasimha suggested.
"Brilliant," Edwin said honestly. "If London knew you had this, they'd… send you to Oxford, give you a chair, and then quietly lock your ideas away for their own use."
"They already intend to lock my land," Narasimha said dryly. "They will not get my mind so easily."
He pointed to certain routes.
"In some places," he said, "your Empire's presence keeps worse predators at bay. In others, it is the worst predator. A single brush does not paint the whole picture. That is why we need eyes that are not blinded by loyalty to any one crown."
Edwin swallowed.
"You're suggesting… cooperation," he said. "Between your hidden eyes and… men like me."
"Yes," Narasimha replied. "Not now, not fully. But later. When you are back in England, when some day a group of disillusioned officers, lords, and clerks decide they have had enough of being tools, remember this: there was, in this land, a network not beholden to your king. And yet… willing to whisper with men of conscience."
"You would trust us?" Edwin asked.
Narasimha smiled slightly.
"I will trust your code," he said. "If you build it. Men come and go. Principles travel."
He picked up a small stone and placed it off the map, on the table's edge.
"Let this be you," he said. "Off the official board. Moving… diagonally."
Edwin chuckled softly.
"Spies and kings," he murmured. "Chess and dharma. You make even treachery sound noble."
"Only treachery against injustice," Narasimha replied. "That kind, I will happily host."
✢ VII. Heaven Hears the First Kingsman
In a layer of reality where time folded politely for the gods, the Tridevi and Trimurti watched the two men over their tea and map.
Saraswati tilted her head.
"Listen to them," she said. "They speak of codes and circles. Of gentlemen refusing cruelty. This is how new orders are born."
Parvati smiled faintly.
"One day," she said, "their spiritual children will wear well-cut suits and funny spectacles, fight demons with umbrellas and etiquette. People will laugh. Then they will gasp. That is also dharma at work."
Lakshmi nodded.
"And they will owe part of that to a Rayalaseema boy who could not leave injustice alone," she said.
Maheshwara's eyes were far away.
"Let them talk," he rumbled. "Words laid now become weapons later. When Marvel's storms come—Hydra, SHIELD, alien invasions—Earth will need not just gods and capes, but men whose only power is that they say 'no' at the right moment."
Vishnu smiled.
"Here," he said, "we see two sides of preservation:
the lion king, preserving his land with networks and swords,
the gentleman spy, preserving his conscience inside a devouring Empire.
Both have roles."
Brahma wrote:
U.N.R. + E. Fairfax – foundational dialogue. Seed of an independent 'gentleman-spy' order planted. Proto-Kingsman ethics articulated: loyalty to the vulnerable above institutions.
✵ VIII. Parting and Promise
On the morning of his departure, Edwin stood once more in the main courtyard.
The carriage was ready.
The air was thick with the smell of wet earth—finally, a proper rain had fallen in the night.
He turned to Narasimha.
"I will return to Madras," he said. "I will continue to wear this coat. Attend their dinners. Smile at their jokes. But inside… I will hold to our little oath."
Narasimha nodded.
"And I," he said, "will continue to sit in this Sabha Hall, listen to farmers, sign papers, and pretend to be just another zamindar. Inside, I will build the storm you will one day read about in a London paper."
Edwin smiled tiredly.
"If I am still alive to read it," he said, "I will raise a glass quietly to the 'rebellious zamindar' they grumble about and think, 'You have no idea who you almost crushed.'"
They clasped forearms in that midway grip they had developed—
between a British handshake and an Indian embrace.
"Take care, Edwin," Narasimha said. "Do not die for something as foolish as paperwork."
"I shall try," Edwin replied. "You too. Do not die for something as foolish as pride."
Narasimha's eyes warmed.
"I have… arrangements with certain gods about that," he said.
Edwin shook his head, smiling.
"One day," he said, "you must explain your odd phrasing."
"One day," Narasimha echoed. "When men in your land carry umbrellas that shoot bullets and try to tell me they invented it."
Edwin laughed aloud at that, climbed into the carriage, and was gone.
Dust rose.
Then settled.
Ayyappa stepped beside Narasimha.
"You trust him?" the commander asked.
"I trust," Narasimha said slowly, "that when he stands in a room where someone weaker is being crushed, he will feel our oath burn in his palm. That is enough."
"And his… future circle?" Sri said from the verandah, having listened.
Narasimha smiled.
"Let them come," he murmured. "Kingsman, spies, gentlemen. When the Marvel world wakes fully, they will find that Bharat's lion has been expecting them."
He turned toward the Map Room.
There were new reports waiting.
There was a kingdom to build.
There was a revolt to prepare.
Somewhere, far away, an Englishman rode back into the heart of Empire, carrying a small, invisible shard of dharma in his chest.
And that shard would, one day, notch its mark into the code of a secret order:
"Manners maketh man.But mercy maketh gentleman."
For now, it was enough that the lion and the gentleman had met,
spoken,
sworn,
and parted.
The web below and the code above had touched.
History—and Marvel—would feel the echo later.
✦ End of Chapter 27 – "The Gentleman and the Lion" ✦