✦ ⭑ I. Venkanna's Question
The rains had finally settled into a rhythm.
Not enough to flood.
Not too little to starve.
Just enough to slick the stones of Uyyalawada's new mansion and fill its inner tank with a steady mirror of the sky.
In the Map Room, oil lamps cast a warm, flickering glow across maps, ledgers, and the lion who refused to sit still.
Narasimha paced in front of the great wall-map, hands clasped behind his back.
"Above-ground," he said, half to himself, "we now have:
a decent house,
better roads,
trade growing,
alliances branching,
a proto-intelligence web."
He stopped, eyes narrowing at a cluster of British posts marked in red.
"Which means," he murmured, "we also have a bullseye painted on our chest."
Venkanna, seated cross-legged on a low wooden platform, looked up from a scroll.
"What troubles you now?" the Guru asked. "You have air, water, stone, fire. What more do you want, boy?"
"Earth," Narasimha said.
Venkanna's brows rose.
"We already stand on plenty of it," he pointed out.
"Yes. Open, exposed, flat earth that any Company cannon can plough," Narasimha replied. "I want the kind they can't see. The kind that swallows blows and stays quiet. I want… bones beneath the body."
Venkanna's gaze sharpened.
"Hidden forts," he said quietly.
"Not forts," Narasimha corrected. "Fortresses. Fort is what you boast about on hilltops. Fortress is what still stands after your boast is broken."
He looked at the map again.
"If—when—the British decide we are too much trouble," he said, "they will:
send more troops,
seize grain,
arrest leaders,
cut roads,
burn visible storehouses.
I refuse," he said softly, jaw tightening, "to let one bad season of politics starve a generation that trusted me."
Venkanna nodded slowly.
"So," he said, "you want to put aside food, weapons, medicine. Places to fall back to. Places to rise from. All without announcing a rebellion."
"Yes," Narasimha said. "We build now, while we are still officially loyal subjects. We dig now, while their gaze is on other fires. When the time comes, we will not scramble like ants when someone kicks their hill. We will… open doors."
Venkanna's eyes gleamed.
"Then," he said, "let us talk of holes that hold hope."
❖ II. The First Door in the Floor
The idea did not begin with a grand underground city.
It began with a granary leak.
One noon, months earlier, Narasimha and Raghava had gone to inspect a village on the edge of Uyyalawada territory.
The harvest had been good.
Yet the villagers' rations were thin.
"Where is your grain?" Narasimha asked the headman, standing before a partially filled storage shed.
The man swallowed.
"Dora, some of it… spoiled," he said unhappily. "Rats. Damp."
Raghava walked into the storage shed, examined:
stacked sacks,
damp patches on walls,
clear signs of gnawed edges.
"Too predictable," Raghava said quietly. "Open granary, poor plaster, cheap timber. Any inspector can see your stores from the road."
That night, on the journey back, Narasimha had stared at the land lit by moonlight and thought:
What if no one could see?
Not just grain.
What if:
swords, muskets, powder,
bandages, dried herbs, salts,
records and maps
could survive even if a punitive force razed the village above?
So, in the new Uyyalawada mansion, he asked the masons to leave one room unfinished.
It looked like:
a plain, windowless storage chamber,
with a bare stone floor and simple shelves.
Only those who watched closely would notice:
a faint line where one slab did not quite match the rest,
tiny holes near the wall where none were needed.
One evening, Narasimha asked Ayyappa, Devudu, and Raghava to meet him there.
He held a small iron rod.
"Watch," he said.
He slid the rod into one of the holes, pressed, and twisted.
The mismatched stone in the centre:
shuddered,
lifted a finger's breadth,
then sank again.
Ayyappa's brows shot up.
"Hidden door?" he said.
"Hidden throat," Narasimha corrected, crouching to grip the stone edge. "Help me. It still needs your muscle."
Together, they lifted the slab.
Under it:
A shaft with neatly cut steps spiralling down into cool darkness.
A lantern went first.
They descended.
At the bottom, the air smelled of lime, clay, and something almost like old temple sanctums.
An underground chamber opened out—roughly the size of a large village house, but with:
walls reinforced with stone and timber,
several niches for lamps,
raised platforms for storage,
openings tucked high near the ceiling to allow air circulation but little light.
Ayyappa whistled softly.
"I've lived in forts with less thought put into their barracks," he said.
Raghava ran a hand along the wall.
"Narrow corridor there," he said, pointing. "Leads where?"
Narasimha smiled.
"To a different exit," he replied. "Behind the north boundary wall. Covered by scrub. If this house falls, if British ever take it, some of us can still slip out. Or… slip in."
Devudu grinned.
"A thief's dream," he said.
"A king's insurance," Narasimha corrected. "Right now, we will start slowly. Weapons: cleaned, oiled, wrapped and stored. Grain: hardy varieties in sealed containers. Dried medicines. Salt. A copy of certain essential records. And enough space for… people, if they must hide for a short time."
"A siege cellar," Ayyappa said.
"Many future things," Narasimha replied. "For now, it is the first bone."
He looked around the chamber.
The lamp flame danced on the walls.
Down here, the noises of the house felt distant.
"This," he said softly, "must exist not just here. In villages. In loyal chiefs' houses. In forest clearings. Quiet teeth in the earth."
✢ III. How to Hide a Fortress in Plain Sight
They could not simply start digging holes everywhere.
British surveyors and local gossip would notice.
So they decided:
Hidden fortresses would grow like roots, not like new towers.
1. Underground Granaries
The easiest excuse was famine.
"We cannot rely on sky," Narasimha said at a village meeting. "So we rely on stone."
He ordered:
small, subterranean grain pits in certain key villages,
lined with lime and clay,
vented carefully,
with cleverly disguised covers—sometimes under a cattle shed, sometimes in the back of a temple kitchen.
"These are for emergency stores," he told the villagers. "Not for daily use. When trouble comes—drought or tax raids—you will not starve."
Most villagers saw only the mercy:
Extra grain. Hidden safety.
They did not realize some of those pits had two tiers:
top layer grain,
lower layer small cache of:
spare weapons,
bandages,
coin.
Ayyappa ensured:
careful training on moisture control,
rotation of stocks.
Venkanna ensured:
that no one started worshipping the pits as new gods and telling every stranger about them.
"We hide salvation," he said, "in habit. If these pits become festival conversation, we have failed."
2. Temple Cellars
Temples already had:
garbha grihas (sanctums),
prakarams (corridors),
small storage rooms.
Adding one more chamber below was not difficult if done over time.
In certain chosen shrines—whose priests were trusted—Narasimha funded "repairs" and "extensions":
new stone slabs,
improved flooring,
anti-termite treatments.
Under cover of this, a small underground chamber would be dug:
accessible through a stone in a side-corridor,
large enough to store:
scrolls,
valuable small items,
emergency food.
In one such temple, a wry old priest squinted at Narasimha.
"So," he said, "you want to hide worldly things under the gods' feet, hmm?"
Narasimha gave a small bow.
"I want to protect the gods' people with the gods' roof," he replied. "If that offends, I will find another plan."
The priest snorted.
"Offend?" he said. "I have watched men steal even from donation plates. Good to see someone finally thinking of putting rice and bandages under these stones, not just coins."
He thumped his chest.
"I will sit on the secret," he said. "Anyone tries to go down without your sign… they will first get my stick on their head."
3. Hillside Hollows
In the rocky folds of Rayalaseema, hills rose like crouching beasts.
Some already had natural caves.
Others did not—but could be persuaded to.
Under the guidance of old quarry-workers and with the help of tribal guides, Narasimha's men picked:
a few discreet locations,
away from main roads,
near water sources.
There, they excavated chambers:
entered through narrow cracks or disguised as animal shelters,
ventilated through existing rock formations,
reinforced inside with stone and timber.
In these, they stored:
larger weapon caches,
extra powder barrels (kept bone-dry and triple-secured),
medical kits,
some surplus uniforms and boots.
A man could live hidden there for days if needed.
A company of men could pass through, arm themselves, and vanish again into the scrub.
"These will be," Ayyappa said, "our forest arsenals."
"Do not load them all at once," Narasimha cautioned. "If one is discovered, we must be able to replace its function without crying. Better many small mouths than one big stomach."
4. Uyyalawada's Under-Skin
Beneath the mansion itself, the first chamber multiplied.
Over months and then years:
narrow tunnels linked:
the Map Room,
an innocuous pantry,
a servant's quarter,
a back courtyard drain.
each link had:
at least one dead-end trap corridor (for confusing intruders),
multiple choke points where defenders could hold off attackers if someone ever found their way down.
Armouries were not massive halls bristling with swords.
They were:
long, narrow niches carved into walls,
each holding:
a dozen muskets,
boxes of bullets,
a few swords and spears.
Labels—when present—were in simple symbols only a handful understood.
"Why so many small caches instead of one grand arsenal?" a young captain asked once.
Narasimha gestured at the stone around them.
"If fire finds one," he said, "better to lose one limb than the whole body. Redundancy is its own armour."
Sri added dryly:
"And if some greedy guard decides to 'borrow' a musket to impress a girl in the next village, he will wonder why the corridor keeps turning and always brings him back to my glowering face."
❖ IV. Medicine, Not Just Metal
Weapons and grain alone do not sustain rebellions.
Plenty of madmen had discovered that.
They rose in fury, only to fall to:
disease,
infection,
untreated wounds,
simple lack of salt.
Narasimha refused to repeat that.
One afternoon, he and Raghava sat with a group of:
vaidyas (traditional doctors),
midwives,
and one young man who had picked up some basic European medical techniques in Madras.
A table lay between them, covered in:
bundles of herbs,
clay jars,
brass instruments,
a few precious glass vials.
"I am building hidden teeth," Narasimha said. "But teeth break if the body is sick. I want medicine stored where we store grain and guns."
They discussed:
what could keep well over months:
dried herbs,
powdered roots,
certain oils and salves.
what instruments were vital:
clean blades,
needles,
bandages,
tourniquets.
The Madras-trained youth, Arjun, frowned thoughtfully.
"Cleanliness," he said. "That is most important. I have seen doctors in English hospitals insist on washing tools —some even boiling them— before use. Others laugh. But fewer die on the first kind of table."
Narasimha nodded.
"Then we store not just herbs," he said, "but knowledge. You will write simple guides. Short. Clear. No need for long Sanskrit verses when a soldier is bleeding."
He held up a small clay jar.
"This," he said, "in the hands of one taught well, might save more lives than ten muskets."
Venkanna, listening at the back, smiled faintly.
"Good," he thought. "He remembers that kings heal, not just hurt."
So, into the hidden places went:
medicine kits, labelled with symbols,
instructions written in multiple scripts,
a list of which village had which healer trained in which method.
When later rebels elsewhere would wonder how Uyyalawada's men kept standing after wounds that should have killed them, they would not see:
the underground jars of antiseptic oils,
the clean cloth carefully wrapped and sealed,
the maps that sent wounded to the nearest secret healer.
Hidden fortresses were not just rock.
They were preparedness.
✢ V. Secrets, Lies, and Half-Truths
A network of underground forts and armories brings with it another danger:
Not just enemy spies.
Ego.
Men love to brag.
Especially about dangerous toys.
So Narasimha built stories to cover his secrets.
When British or rival chiefs saw:
new construction near hills,
unusual stone work near village edges,
extra labourers in seemingly pointless places,
they received answers like:
"Minor flood-control works,"
"Repairing old cattle enclosures,"
"Storing grain to pay future taxes more efficiently."
Sometimes, these were partly true.
Often, they were accompanied by:
small, easily inspectable granaries above ground,
decoy storage rooms with old tools.
Sri, of course, took malicious delight in crafting such misdirections.
"If a British officer leaves thinking he has 'discovered' a store of ten spears and sacks of millet," she said, "he will write a smug report. He will not notice the hollow-sounding stone he walked over."
Even within Uyyalawada, knowledge was layered:
some soldiers thought the underground chambers were for hiding gold,
some believed they were tunnels for evacuating elders,
a handful knew of weapon stores,
fewer knew the full map.
Raghava enforced one simple rule:
"If you are not directly responsible for a space, you do not go exploring. Curiosity without duty will get you reassigned to counting goats in some distant hamlet."
Once, a young, bright-eyed recruit named Muniswami disobeyed.
He found a half-open passage in a storage room and slipped in, heart pounding at the thought of secret weapons.
He got lost after three turns and ended up walking in circles until a stone panel slid open and Sri's unimpressed face appeared.
"Having fun?" she asked.
He stammered apologies.
"You will now spend three months," she told him, "drawing maps of cow sheds and counting how many calves are born. If you do that well, maybe we will trust you near secret corridors again. Maybe."
As punishment went, it was almost kind.
But his story spread.
Soon enough, most men decided that whatever marvels lay beneath their feet, they would rather not risk Sri's chilly lectures to see them.
❖ VI. The British Sniff the Ground
For a while, the underground works remained invisible.
Then one day, a British surveyor, Mr. Williams, visiting to "advise" on road improvements, noticed something odd.
On the edge of a village under Uyyalawada's wing, he saw:
fresh earth near a hill,
neatly cut stones stacked oddly,
labourers working with more precision than seemed necessary for a cow shed.
He squinted.
"What's this?" he asked, adjusting his spectacles.
The local revenue man stammered slightly, thrown off.
"Sir, it is… ah… new storage. For… grain," he said.
"Below ground?" Williams asked, surprised. "Unusual."
Narasimha, who had arrived to "inspect road alignments," stepped in smoothly.
"Ah, Mr. Williams," he said warmly. "You have a good eye. Yes, we are experimenting. The last storm spoiled much grain. We thought… why not use the hill's cool belly?"
Williams nodded, half-interested, half-suspicious.
"Efficient," he said. "Though one hopes you are not hiding anything else down there."
"Only the dreams of farmers who wish their children won't starve next year," Narasimha replied lightly.
Williams chuckled.
Trinetra watchers noted:
he inspected,
found mostly grain,
left with mild approval.
Of course, he had seen only a grain pit.
The actual armory entrance was thirty paces to the side, disguised as a pile of old quarry stones.
In Madras, his report would say:
"Certain zamindary villages are constructing subterranean granaries. Appears to be a local innovation to reduce spoilage. No evident seditious intent. Might improve revenue stability."
"Good," Sri said when Raghava read this aloud later. "Let them think we are only storing food. They will be so pleased about future taxes, they may even recommend grants."
"Can we get grants for underground armories too?" Ayyappa joked.
"Ask politely," Narasimha replied. "We may find some 'rural infrastructure funds' can be 'reallocated.'"
✢ VII. Marvel Looks Down
Far above, at an angle no British surveyor could imagine, Kamar-Taj's inner eye and an Eternal's patient gaze both began to see something odd.
The flow of energy around Uyyalawada and its allied lands changed.
Before, the land's spiritual "heat" had been mostly at:
temples,
bustling markets,
courts.
Now, small nodes appeared:
in hills,
under villages,
beneath the mansion.
They glowed not with mystical spells, but with:
the compact, dense presence of stored intent.
Weapons waiting.
Grain waiting.
Medicine waiting.
Men's plans waiting.
The senior Master at Kamar-Taj frowned at his inner scrying.
"They are digging," he murmured. "Preparing for storms in entirely mundane ways. Stone bunkers instead of astral shields. Interesting."
His apprentice peered at the vision.
"Is that… dangerous?" he asked.
"For whom?" the Master asked back. "For colonizers? Perhaps. For demons? Less so. But. Men who build this way think in layers. They will be more useful than those who rely on luck when the sky cracks."
An Eternal archivist added a note to his never-ending human file:
"Subject U.N.R. has begun construction of distributed underground survival and resistance infrastructure: food, arms, medical. Could allow certain regions to withstand significant external shocks (war, famine, cosmic disruptions) longer than expected baseline."
One day, when alien ships would fire on Earth, or when reality-warping events would ripple through timelines, some of those underground chambers—or their descendants—would save lives entirely unrelated to the British.
For now, they were simply:
insurance against a different kind of empire.
❖ VIII. The Lion and the Earth
One late night, after supervising yet another set of hidden storage layouts, Narasimha sat on a low rock outside the mansion walls.
The moon was a thin blade.
The air smelled of damp soil.
His hands were dirty, nails clogged with earth.
A seldom-seen sight for a chieftain.
Venkanna sat beside him, staff resting across his lap.
"You were born to look at stars," the Guru said softly. "Yet here you are, digging holes like a farmer looking for roots."
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"Stars don't feed children, Guruji," he said. "Grain does. And grain doesn't survive cannon and greed unless we hide it like treasure."
He looked at his dirt-streaked fingers.
"You know," he added, "in my past life, there were stories of underground bunkers in other wars. Men hid there from bombs that fell from the sky. It always felt… distant. Now I understand. When you cannot trust the sky, you learn to trust the soil."
Venkanna's eyes softened.
"Does it tire you?" he asked. "To always think of worst-case? To build for disasters when others are still hopeful?"
"Yes," Narasimha admitted. "But I would be more tired watching women weep over empty plates and saying, 'If only I had thought ahead.'"
He leaned back on his hands, feeling the cool earth.
"Besides," he said, a crooked smile forming, "I am selfish."
"Oh?" Venkanna asked.
"I like seeing British faces," Narasimha said, "when they arrive certain they have crushed us… and find we somehow still have grain, weapons, and will. That… is a pleasure worth dirty nails."
Venkanna laughed quietly.
"Now you sound like the lion your people whisper about," he said. "Teeth hidden until necessary."
"They're not just my teeth anymore," Narasimha said. "They belong to every hungry child I'm planning for. One day, they won't even remember my name. They'll just say, 'Somehow, we did not starve when trouble came.' That is enough."
Above them, the moon climbed a little higher.
Below them, in carefully carved chambers, future resistance slept:
wrapped in cloth,
sealed in jars,
stacked in neat rows,
waiting for a date that had not yet been written.
✵ IX. Closing of "The Bones Beneath the Earth"
By the end of Chapter 28, another invisible layer of Narasimha's preparation had taken shape:
Hidden fortresses—not in the sense of towering castles, but in:
underground granaries,
temple cellars,
hillside hollows,
and secret chambers under Uyyalawada's own floors.
Secret armories—distributed caches of weapons, powder, and uniforms, designed so that:
no single discovery would cripple the whole,
replacements could be made quietly,
supply lines would persist even if visible structures burned.
Medical reserves—a rare foresight for that era, where:
dried herbs,
clean instruments,
bandages,
and basic antiseptic knowledge
were stored with the same seriousness as muskets.
Cover stories—grain pits, repairs, flood control—crafted so well that British inspection reports actually praised some of the very works that would, one day, fuel rebellion.
No trumpet announced:
"Underground forts are being built!"
No historian's pen recorded:
"Here lies the heart of India's proto-bunkers."
But the earth knew.
It cradled:
rice,
steel,
oil,
maps,
and hope,
under a kingdom that pretended still to be only a "loyal zamindari."
When the time came—
when taxes bit too deep,
when whips cracked once too often,
when Company arrogance finally crossed the invisible line in the lion's heart—
these bones beneath the earth would let his roar last longer than theirs.
And far in the future, when Marvel's world of heroes and villains would explode above the same land, the descendants of these hidden designs—
civil defence shelters, covert bases, secure supply depots—
would still echo the same instinct:
"Hide enough to survive the blast.
Store enough to outlast the storm.
Prepare in silence so that, when everything falls, something still stands."
For now, only a handful of men and gods knew.
That was enough.
The lion had put claws into the soil.
Soon, he would put fire into the sky.
✦ End of Chapter 28 – "The Bones Beneath the Earth" ✦