✦ I. After the Roar, the Echoes
The Battle of Rayalaseema Plains did not end with the last British drum falling silent.
It ended days later, in ways that did not make noise:
in markets where men whispered, "They say two Regiment turned back,"
in temples where priests added a quiet line to their prayers for "the lion who guards the south,"
in forts where small chiefs weighed which banner to bow to.
In Uyyalawada's Map Room, the victory was a set of new lines.
On the cloth spread over the floor, Narasimha marked:
a red circle where the battle had been,
a black arrow showing the British retreat to the ridge,
small green marks where his own forces had held.
He studied it without smiling.
Sri leaned against a pillar, arms folded.
"You look like a man who's been told he must host a feast for twenty relatives," she remarked, "after cooking for three hundred strangers."
Narasimha grunted.
"I have just proved," he said, "that we can bloody the Empire in open battle. Which means…"
He traced the southern coastline with his charcoal.
"…every other rebel, band, chief, and merchant from here to Kanyakumari is now staring in this direction, thinking, 'If he can do it, maybe…'"
Ayyappa dropped heavily onto a low stool.
"That's good, isn't it?" he said. "More allies. More swords."
Narasimha nodded slowly.
"Good," he agreed. "Also… complicated. Swords come with hands. Hands come with egos. Egos come with opinions on who should sit where at the table."
Sri's eyes glinted.
"Then we make a table large enough," she said. "Or… a circle."
Venkanna, who had entered quietly, tapped his staff.
"A mandala," he said.
Narasimha looked up.
The word settled on the air like a drawn yantra.
"A circle," Venkanna continued. "Old kings used it for both meditation and strategy. A mandala is not just a shape—it is a way of placing energies, allies, enemies… understanding who sits where."
Narasimha turned the word over in his mind.
"Mandala…" he murmured.
Sri stepped closer to the map.
"The British see this land as Presidencies and Districts," she said. "Straight lines, neat boxes. We see hills, temples, rivers. Perhaps it's time we also see… circles."
Narasimha's finger rested on three points:
the Ballari region in the northwest,
the Tamil lands to the south,
the coastal Andhra ports to the east.
"Raju's people in Ballari already bleed with us," he said. "Tamil fighters under men like Raja Pandiyan harass the Company in their own ways. Our merchants on the coast… they quietly fund half our operations and half our headaches."
He sat back.
"If we continue to move alone," he said, "we will win a few plains and lose slowly in the long game. If we bind the south into a mandala—" his eyes sharpened "—we become more than a region in rebellion. We become a Dakshina Mandala. A southern circle."
Ayyappa's eyebrows rose.
"Dakshina Mandala," he repeated. "Sounds like something that belongs in a scripture, not on your paperwork."
Narasimha grimaced.
"Don't remind me of paperwork," he said. "But… yes. If we form this, it cannot just be a pretty name. It must be a living alliance. Real terms. Real oaths. Real teeth."
Venkanna smiled faintly.
"Then it is decided," he said. "The lion has roared. Now he learns to sit at the centre of a circle."
Narasimha muttered,
"I miss the days when my biggest circle was the courtyard swing."
II. Summons to the South
Trinetra moved.
Not with armies, but with letters.
pigeon wings,
traders' satchels,
temple bundles tied in saffron cloth.
No grand proclamations.
Just quiet notes and tokens, each tailored to its recipient.
To Avuku Raju of Ballari, Narasimha sent:
a small iron ring engraved with a lion and a mountain,
and a short message in a firm hand:
"Brother of the borders,We have made one plain remember us. The next battle will not be won by one chieftain alone. Come to speak where stone and river meet. Bring those whose word carries weight in Ballari.– Narasimha"
To Raja Pandiyan, the fiery Tamil warrior who had been cutting at Company guards in the Madurai belt, he sent:
a strip of cloth torn from a British flag taken at Kadapa,
and a note in formal but direct Tamil (carefully crafted with help from a Tamil-speaking scribe):
"Warrior of the south,You fight with lion's breath and tiger's claws. I have fought them on our plains; you have burned them in your streets.Let us see if the winds from Andhra and Tamil lands can blow together.If you are willing, come to the hill of the Lord where Nallamala bows—Srisailam. There, we speak not as overlord and vassal, but as pillars in a circle.– Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy"
To the Coastal Andhra merchants, via their quiet guild masters in Machilipatnam and Visakhapatnam, he sent no boasting.
Just numbers.
And respect.
*"The British think they hold power because they hold guns. We both know guns rust without coin and food. Your ships and ledgers already stretch farther than any zamindar's sword.
I offer this: an alliance where coin serves not crowns alone, but the land that grew it. A Mandala of the South, of which you will be a key arm.
If this interests you, send representatives to Srisailam on the next new moon. Look for the banner with no emblem—just plain white. That is ours.
– N.R."*
Within weeks, the replies came.
Not as parchment returning by the same routes.
As movement.
III. Bellary's Answer
In Ballari's rocky country, where the land rose and fell like sleeping beasts, Avuku Raju stood on a flat boulder, looking east.
Beside him, two other chiefs:
Bhima Nayak, a broad-shouldered man with a scar splitting one eyebrow, notorious for raiding Company caravans and then sharing loot with villages.
Mallappa Gowda, lean, hawk-nosed, whose riders knew the passes to Mysore as well as they knew their own courtyards.
Raju turned the iron ring Narasimha had sent between his fingers.
"He calls," Bhima said. "Will you go?"
Raju's moustache twitched.
"Of course I'll go," he said. "Do you think I'll let the Rayalaseema lion sit in a circle of chiefs without Ballari in it? Then Madrasi fellows will say, 'Raju stayed home because he was afraid.'"
Mallappa chuckled.
"You do hate being left out of gossip," he agreed.
Raju's gaze hardened.
"He stood in front of two Regiment and sent them back limping," he said quietly. "I'm not so proud that I pretend that means nothing."
He clenched the ring.
"When we first met," he went on, "I envied his respect. His people shout his name like it's half a prayer. I thought: 'Why him? Why not me?'"
He shrugged.
"Then I saw him after the fort, talking to a wounded boy like they were equal," he said. "And on the plain, fighting like he carried every man's death in his own chest. I decided envy is wasted on such fellows. Better to be on their side."
Bhima scratched his beard.
"So this Mandala?" he asked. "What does he want? Our swords? Our coin? Our signatures on some paper that says he's Big Tiger and we are Small Cubs?"
Raju smirked.
"If he tries that," he said, "I will personally steal his horse. No. My gut says he wants something… stranger. Not tribute. Balance."
He hopped down from the rock.
"We'll go," he said. "All of us. If there's a circle forming in the south that decides where war walks, Bellari will sit in it. On our own terms."
He slipped the ring onto his finger.
It fit.
Surprisingly well.
IV. The Tamil Flame Considers
Far to the south, in a dense grove outside Madurai, Raja Pandiyan practised with his twin swords.
They flashed in the dawn light like twin comets.
Around him, his small band watched.
Some were former palaiyakkarars (poligar chiefs) dispossessed by the Company.
Others were sons of peasants who had seen too many taxes and too few rains.
One of his lieutenants, Muthu, stepped forward with a folded cloth.
"Anna," he said, "word came. From the Rayalaseema lion."
Pandiyan paused, blades resting on his shoulders.
"Oh?" he said. "Does he invite us to admire his moustache?"
Muthu grinned.
"He invites you to Srisailam," he said. "Says he wants to speak as equals. He sent this."
He unfolded the cloth.
The British flag scrap fluttered.
Pandiyan had seen such flags.
He had also seen them:
on forts that once held Tamil kings,
on courtyards where his people once walked without fear.
He took the cloth between thumb and forefinger.
"So he tears their flags and turns them into invitations," he murmured.
"That, I like."
He looked west.
"We have fought our own war," he mused. "Ambushing patrols. Burning records. Freeing villagers from forced labour. If we join his Mandala…"
He trailed off.
Muthu waited.
"…we risk becoming another spear on his wall," Pandiyan finished. "A name in his story, instead of our own."
Muthu nodded slowly.
"True," he said. "But if we don't join, when the British march a bigger army next time, they'll crush us one pocket at a time. One palm full of embers can scorch a hand. Many embers together can light a forest."
Pandiyan chuckled.
"Listen to you," he said. "Quoting poetry like some court scholar."
He looked at the flag scrap again.
"He took their fort," he said softly. "He broke their lines on a plain. And he calls us 'pillar', not 'subject'. Hm."
Finally, he nodded.
"We'll go," he said. "With open eyes. If his circle feels like a rope around our necks, we walk away. If it feels like a shield wall… we consider staying."
He tossed the flag scrap into the small fire nearby.
It hissed and curled into ash.
"Besides," he added with a half-smile, "I'm curious to see if his legendary kingly aura comes with legendary dark circles under his eyes. Men who carry too much always have tired faces."
V. The Merchants' Weighing
In a discreet hall near the Machilipatnam docks, a different kind of war council sat.
No swords on the floor.
Just scrolls.
Account books.
Maps with lines across seas.
At the head of the low table sat Jagannatha Setty, a silver-haired merchant whose ships had touched:
Ceylon,
Malacca,
the Gulf,
the edge of far-off African coasts.
On either side, other traders:
a salt magnate from Kakinada,
a textile broker from Masulipatnam,
a spice trader with discreet ties to French houses.
Narasimha's letter lay open.
"You all saw what happened at Kadapa," Setty said. "You heard about the battle on the plains. Narasimha Reddy is not just a noisy zamindar. He is… re-drawing risk."
The textile broker frowned.
"And risk is what we count," he said. "Our ledgers depend on knowing which routes are safe, which ports are favoured, which flags protect our cargo. If we back his rebellion too openly, we invite Company wrath. Seized ships. Fines. Black marks."
The spice trader tapped the table.
"If we do nothing," he countered, "we invite a different risk. A future where the Company owns every dock, every warehouse, every caravan. Where we become agents in their system, instead of masters of our own."
Setty listened, then cleared his throat.
"Let us not pretend we have been neutral so far," he said. "Many of us have already routed coin quietly to Rayalaseema. Paid for grain that 'went missing'. Allowed shipments to 'fall off the ledger' in Narasimha's direction."
A few looked away, caught.
Setty smiled thinly.
"He knows," he said. "That's why he writes to us as if we are already in his circle. The question is not whether we choose sides. We already have. The question is how formal we make it."
Silence.
From outside drifted the sound of waves and gulls.
Setty tapped Narasimha's words.
"'Coin serves not crowns alone, but the land that grew it,'" he read. "He understands something most kings do not: without us, their armies starve. Their forts crumble. Their 'honour' sits hungry in the dark."
He leaned forward.
"Dakshina Mandala," he said. "A southern alliance. If we sit in it, we are not mere donors. We are a pillar."
The salt magnate frowned.
"You think he will truly treat us as equals to warriors?" he asked.
Setty's eyes twinkled.
"He hates paperwork," he said. "If he doesn't treat us well, we can threaten to withdraw all his accountants and see how long he lasts."
Soft laughter.
Then, more seriously, he added,
"We will send our best. Not just a bag of coin. A mind. Someone who can listen in warrior tents and speak in ledger rooms. If this Mandala becomes real, our ships will be its veins."
He looked toward the unseen interior.
"Noseless accountants in London may think India is just land and labour," he said. "We know better. The south is a market, a mind, a memory. If Rayalaseema rises and we stand aside, history will remember us as men who counted coins while the land changed shape."
One by one, the others nodded.
"We go, then," the spice trader said. "To see this lion who writes like a clerk and fights like a storm."
VI. Conclave at Srisailam
They chose Srisailam for the meeting.
Not Uyyalawada.
Not any fort.
A temple-town high on the Nallamala, where Lord Mallikarjuna and Goddess Bhramaramba had watched centuries of kings rise and fall.
It was:
neutral ground,
sacred enough to discourage treachery,
remote enough to keep prying British eyes away.
At dawn on the appointed day, the mist clung to the steps of the ghat like a shy devotee's shawl.
Pilgrims moved about as usual—bathing, offering prayers.
Among them, quieter movements:
Ballari horsemen disguised as bodyguards of "wealthy pilgrims,"
Tamil warriors wearing plain white and angavastrams instead of war-gear,
coastal merchants in simple cotton instead of their usual finery.
On a broad mandapam overlooking the gorge, a discrete arrangement had been made.
No banners.
No grand thrones.
Just:
a circular platform of stone,
six carved pillars marking directions,
mats placed in a ring.
At the centre, drawn in white chalk and turmeric, was a mandala.
Not overly ornate.
Just:
a circle,
intersecting lines forming a lotus-like pattern,
small marks at points where lines met.
Narasimha stood there, bare-headed, wearing a simple but well-fitted angarakha instead of full armour.
His sword rested at his side.
He looked more like a serious landlord than a conquering king.
Which was intentional.
Venkanna stood slightly behind him.
Sri and Ayyappa flanked him.
The first to arrive openly at the mandapam was Avuku Raju.
He stepped into the space with his usual swagger, but his eyes were respectful.
"Well, lion," he said. "You chose a fine balcony to gather your cats."
Narasimha smiled.
"Raju," he said warmly. "Welcome. I see you brought half of Ballari's moustaches with you."
Behind Raju, Bhima Nayak and Mallappa Gowda snorted.
Next came Raja Pandiyan.
He walked in as if entering a battlefield:
shoulders loose,
eyes scanning exits,
swords sheathed but close.
He inclined his head slightly.
"Narasimha Reddy," he said. "We finally meet without British guns between us."
"Raja Pandiyan," Narasimha replied. "I've heard your name spoken in Company rooms with… irritation. That already makes me like you."
Pandiyan chuckled.
"That may be the first compliment we share," he said.
From the side entrance, the merchants arrived:
Jagannatha Setty,
the salt magnate,
a sharp-eyed woman accounting master from Kakinada who insisted on joining despite others' raised brows.
They bowed first to the deities, then stepped onto the mandapam.
"Simha Dora," Setty greeted. "We come as requested, though our ships and rupee bundles are trembling with jealousy."
Narasimha grinned.
"Tell them if this meeting goes well, they will have more work than ever," he said.
When all were seated in the ring, Narasimha stepped into the centre.
The mandala beneath his feet seemed to hum faintly with presence: chalk, turmeric, intent.
VII. Drawing the Dakshina Mandala
"For centuries," Narasimha began, "men in Delhi and London have drawn lines on maps and called them borders. They see the south as pieces:
Madras Presidency,
princely states,
zamindaris,
forests,
'tribal belts',
and 'bandit-prone zones'."
He looked around.
"We know another truth," he said. "This land is also circles:
circles of pilgrimage,
circles of trade,
circles of language and song,
circles of blood and salt."
He tapped the chalk mandala gently with his heel.
"I called you here," he continued, "because if we keep fighting as lines—each of us defending only what lies between our two hands—we will be cut, one by one. But if we stand as a Mandala—a circle—our strength feeds each point."
He gestured to the marks.
"Here," he said, pointing to one point on the circle, "Rayalaseema. My home. Our battles so far."
He pointed to another.
"Here, Ballari and the border chiefs," he said. "Hard men who have held passes while bigger kings slept."
Raju nodded, eyes serious.
"Here," Narasimha pointed further south, "Tamil lands. Warriors like Raja Pandiyan who remind the Company that they do not own even the dust of the southern roads."
Pandiyan's jaw tightened, but he inclined his head.
"Here," Narasimha moved his hand east, "the coast. The merchants whose coins flow like unseen rivers, feeding fields and forts alike."
Setty's fingers, always thinking of ledgers and tides, rested thoughtfully on his knee.
"And in between," Narasimha said, drawing invisible lines, "the forests of Nallamala, the temple hills of Srisailam, the stairs of Tirupati. All of these are not separate. They are nodes."
He straightened.
"I propose this," he said. "We form the Dakshina Mandala. A secret alliance of the south. Its vows:
We do not become one kingdom under one crown. Each region keeps its own leaders, its own customs, its own pride.
We agree that when the Company strikes one of us, the others will move. Not always with armies—sometimes with coin, sometimes with unrest elsewhere, sometimes with shelter.
We share intelligence. What my Trinetra sees in Rayalaseema will not remain locked in my chest. What your men learn in Ballari, what your traders hear in port taverns, what Tamil fighters see in Madras cantonments—all feed one mind."
He placed his hand on his chest.
"Not mine alone," he added quickly. "Ours. A council. A Mandala's centre is not a throne. It is a meeting point."
Raja Pandiyan's eyes narrowed.
"Fine words," he said. "But a circle still has a centre. Who sits there? You?"
Murmurs.
Narasimha did not flinch.
"I ignited this proposal," he said. "I will not pretend false modesty. It is my schemes that have dragged you all here. I offer to serve as the Mandala's Sanchalaka—the coordinator. The one who keeps the threads from tangling. But…"
He spread his hands.
"…if this circle becomes merely a crown for me, it will rot and collapse. So we write safeguards."
Sri stepped forward with a palm-leaf roll.
She had spent nights drafting this.
"Each major node," she said, "Ballari, Tamil lands, Coast, Rayalaseema, and others to be added, will send one representative to the Inner Council of the Mandala. No decision to commit more than a certain number of troops, or more than a certain amount of coin, can be made without at least three agreeing. Including at least one non-Rayalaseema voice."
The Kakinada accountant raised a brow.
"So the lion does not get the keys to everyone's treasury just because he growls prettily," she said.
Sri smiled.
"Exactly," she said.
Avuku Raju laughed.
"I like her," he told Setty. "She can guard my coffers any day."
Venkanna spoke softly, but his words carried.
"Mandala is also a spiritual word," he reminded them. "If one dot in the circle grows too large, the design breaks. We must all be watchful—not just of the Company's greed, but of our own."
There was a long silence.
Wind moved through the mandapam.
In the distance, temple bells rang, as if punctuating thought.
VIII. The Oath Without Blood
Warrior cultures liked blood oaths.
Cut a palm.
Spill a few drops.
Say grand things.
Narasimha had seen too much blood already.
"No cutting," he said firmly when someone suggested it. "The gods know we have spilt enough. Let this be bound by something else."
Venkanna nodded approvingly.
"In Kashi once," he said, "I saw scholars take oath before a river and a flame. Water remembers, and fire purifies. That is enough witness."
They brought:
a small bronze lamp, flame steady despite the breeze;
a kalasam of water from the Krishna river, brought up the hill with reverence;
a handful of Rayalaseema soil, transported in a simple cloth bundle;
salt from the coast, pinched by Setty's own hand.
These were placed at the mandala's centre.
Narasimha knelt first and touched:
soil,
water,
flame smoke,
salt.
"My word," he said, "as Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy:
that I will not use the Dakshina Mandala to seize personal crowns beyond what my land freely grants,
that I will share what I know of Company movements,
that I will not abandon an ally when the Company comes in force, as long as even a fraction of my strength can move."
He stepped back.
Avuku Raju went next.
"My word," he said, "as Avuku Raju of Ballari border:
that I will not let old rivalries blind me to our shared enemy,
that when Rayalaseema or Tamil lands bleed, I will make Ballari's rocks sharp for Company boots,
that I will send riders when called—unless my own house is on fire, in which case I will at least send news."
Soft chuckles.
Raja Pandiyan stepped forward.
"My word," he said, "as Raja Pandiyan, wandering headache of the Madurai belt:
that I will not sell Mandala secrets for Company coin,
that I will make their roads unsafe whenever they march to crush you,
that I will speak plainly if I think this circle starts to look like a noose."
Setty approached last among the big four.
"My word," he said, "as Jagannatha Setty of Machilipatnam:
that I will not fund campaigns which clearly serve only one man's pride and not the people's good,
that I will provide coin, supplies, and shipping routes according to what this Council agrees,
that if the Mandala becomes corrupt, I will cut off its coin, even if my friendship with its lion pains me."
One by one, others spoke variations.
Bhima Nayak.
Mallappa Gowda.
The Kakinada accountant, whose oath boiled down to: "I will tell the truth in numbers, even if it makes warriors uncomfortable."
When it was done, the lamp flame fluttered once, then steadied.
A breeze moved through.
For a moment, there was a feeling—faint but undeniable—that the circle on the floor was now echoed by a circle in something unseen.
IX. The Secret Clause
Later, after the formalities and shared meal of simple temple food, Narasimha gathered a smaller group in a side chamber.
Present:
Venkanna,
Sri,
Ayyappa,
Avuku Raju,
Raja Pandiyan,
Jagannatha Setty,
and, a little in the background, a tall, quietly dressed Englishman—Edwin Harrow, Narasimha's earlier contact, the aristocrat who quietly opposed Company excess.
He had come ostensibly as a "Western advisor on trade matters," though his true purpose went deeper.
Narasimha looked tired now.
The kind of tired that seeped under the eyes and into the bones.
"We spoke of Mandala today as if I will always be here to coordinate it," he said bluntly. "You all know better."
No one liked hearing it.
But they did not look away.
"I have certain blessings," he continued. "I may outlive many of you. I may not. Arrows do not stop to ask for your astrological chart. If I fall—temporarily, or in a way the world believes is permanent—the Mandala must not crack."
Sri unrolled another palm leaf.
"This is a contingency clause," she said. "Not shared with the wider gathering. Only those in this room, and a few trusted scribes, will know."
Setty huffed.
"More secrets?" he asked, though not unkindly.
"Some secrecy protects," Venkanna said quietly.
Sri read:
"If U.N.R. is removed from the field—by death, capture, or necessary disappearance—the Dakshina Mandala will:– continue to share intelligence through Trinetra's appointed successor,– protect Rayalaseema's people from internal chaos by recognising a local council chosen before his fall,– use the Merchant Alliance's resources (as pledged) to sustain resistance for at least one decade, regardless of whether a 'lion' figurehead exists."
Avuku Raju grunted.
"So even if the head is cut, the body twitches long enough to bite," he said.
Raja Pandiyan tilted his head.
"And who chooses this Trinetra successor?" he asked. "Some secret list?"
Sri's gaze met his evenly.
"I do," she said. "If I live. If not, a chain of names has already been written and hidden. No one person knows all of them."
Her shoulders straightened.
"I do not intend to die quietly at a desk," she added. "But one must plan for boring endings too."
Edwin cleared his throat.
"And what of… external support?" he asked in lightly-accented Telugu. "European sympathisers. Dissidents. Those with resources beyond the seas?"
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"You," he said, "will continue what you've begun: planting seeds in British minds of another way to govern, or not to govern at all. You are not the Mandala's arm. You are… a thread reaching into another tapestry."
Edwin nodded.
"In London," he said, "there are those who tire of Company greed. Today they are weak. Tomorrow… who knows. If your Mandala survives long enough, one day it may find that the hand that once squeezed now trembles."
Pandiyan eyed Edwin.
"I still don't trust your people," he said. "No offence."
"Only some taken," Edwin replied dryly. "I don't trust my people either. That's why I'm here."
A few chuckled.
The mood eased.
Narasimha exhaled.
"So," he said. "We have our public circle. And our hidden anchors. May the gods forgive me for adding yet another layer of plans to my headache."
"You asked for this when you prayed for a 'meaningful life' in your last birth," Venkanna murmured.
Narasimha groaned.
"I should've prayed for a small shop and three well-behaved children," he muttered.
X. British Puzzlement, Cosmic Perspective
Weeks later, in Madras, reports reached the Collector-General:
increased cooperation between Ballari raiders and Rayalaseema rebels,
Tamil bands timing their ambushes suspiciously well with disruptions elsewhere,
coastal trade patterns subtly shifting in ways that favoured Narasimha's supply lines and disadvantaged Company convoys.
On paper, they looked like coincidence.
In Harwood's mind, they looked like pattern.
He spread the reports on his desk.
"Look," he insisted to a sceptical superior. "Developments in three regions:
Ballari chieftains suddenly stop fighting each other and focus entirely on our caravans.
Tamil rebels reduce meaningless attacks and instead hit our supply routes to the south.
Merchants along the coast start… losing shipments that happen to be bound for our most vulnerable outposts."
The superior shrugged.
"So?" he said. "People copy what works. Narasimha wins a battle; others take heart."
Harwood shook his head.
"This isn't just imitation," he said. "The timing, the targets… it's as if someone is drawing a circle on the map and tightening it."
He traced with his finger: Ballari, Rayalaseema, Tamil lands, coast.
A rough loop.
"A Mandala," he thought, without knowing the word.
Above, the gods watched that same circle—not in ink, but in threads of light.
From their vantage, the Dakshina Mandala shone as:
points of gold where oaths had been spoken,
lines of faint radiance where messages and mutual aid flowed,
a central glow where Narasimha moved like a restless star.
Lakshmi smiled softly.
"He is no longer just a king of one patch of earth," she said. "He is becoming what the British fear most: a man who can make others stand together."
Parvati's eyes gleamed with fierce satisfaction.
"A lion alone is impressive," she said. "A pride spread across hills is… a problem for hunters."
Saraswati's veena sang a new pattern.
"This Mandala," she mused, "is also a seed. One day, when ages shift, it will echo in institutions with different names:
agencies,
councils,
alliances.
In Marvel's age, they will call some of it S.H.I.E.L.D., some of it Avengers, some of it secret societies with tailored suits. But this—this is a template."
Maheshwara nodded.
"Dharma needs structures as much as it needs heroes," he said. "Otherwise, every victory dies with its champion."
Vishnu smiled faintly.
"And our nearly-Manu is learning to build those structures," he said. "Circle by circle."
Brahma wrote:
Dakshina Mandala formed: secret southern alliance connecting Rayalaseema, Ballari frontier, Tamil rebel bands, and coastal merchant networks. Led by U.N.R. as Sanchalaka; decisions moderated by multi-node council and Merchant Alliance oversight. Publicly invisible; effects manifest as coordinated resistance and economic support. Contingency plans drafted for persistence beyond U.N.R.'s active presence.
XI. A Lion in a Circle
Back in Srisailam, as the conclave dispersed, Narasimha stood alone for a moment on the now-empty mandapam.
The chalk mandala was smudged by feet.
The lamp had burned low.
The kalasam water had been poured, as offering, into a small sacred basin.
He looked down at the faint circle.
"Dakshina Mandala," he said softly.
The words felt heavy.
And right.
Footsteps approached.
It was Sri, carrying a stack of fresh palm leaves.
He groaned.
"Already?" he asked. "We haven't even reached home. Can my destiny wait until after I have one full night's sleep?"
She smirked.
"Alas, Your Lionness," she said, "mandalas need minutes and ledgers. These are notes from today's discussions. If you don't read them, some merchant will trick you into signing away your favourite elephant."
He took the bundle with exaggerated sorrow.
"You know," he said, "when the gods sent me here, I'm fairly certain they promised more roaring and less… reading."
"Consider this your true punishment," she replied cheerfully. "You get to save the south and do paperwork."
He looked at the horizon, where hills layered into haze.
"All right," he said quietly. "We have our circle. Next comes…" He trailed off, imagining:
bigger British armies,
harsher reprisals,
new technologies,
and, far ahead, a world of steam, electricity, and eventually caped heroes in foreign cities.
"Next comes everything," he finished.
Sri's gaze softened.
"One circle at a time, Simha," she said. "One circle at a time."
The wind rose, carrying the scent of temple flowers and distant forests.
Somewhere, in ways neither of them could see, the Dakshina Mandala pulsed—
a young constellation in the south,
anchored by a Deathless Lion who hated paperwork,
loved his people,
and had just taken one more step toward becoming
Bharat's Hidden King
in a world that, one day,
Marvel would discover was never theirs alone.
✦ End of Chapter 37 – "The Mandala of Allies" ✦