✦ I. Why Bellary Matters
Maps are liars when drawn by men who have never walked the land.
In Madras, Bellary was an ink mark on thick paper, a name in ledgers, a line in Company orders:
"Bellary: strategic cantonment, key to Rayalaseema–Mysore belt. Maintain at all costs."
In Rayalaseema and Karnataka, Ballari was a stone spine:
a fortress perched on a hill of black rock,
roads spidering out toward Rayalaseema in the east,
toward Mysore and Dharwad in the west,
toward Madras Presidency routes in the south.
Whoever held Bellary controlled:
the easiest passes between Andhra and Karnataka,
the main British supply corridor toward interior outposts,
the flow of soldiers, grain, and gunpowder.
To Narasimha and the Dakshina Mandala, it was not just a fort.
It was a knot.
Untie it, and the southern web loosened for the British.
Tie it tighter around their throats, and the Mandala breathed easier.
In the Map Room, Bellary was a circle freshly inked darker.
Narasimha stared at it, tapping the table with one finger.
Sri, opposite him, frowned thoughtfully.
"Taking a fort like Bellary by storm," she said, "will cost us more blood than the plains battle."
Ayyappa agreed, grim.
"High walls. Well-sited guns. They've had years to fortify," he said. "If we rush it, they'll make the rocks drink our men."
Narasimha nodded.
"Then we don't rush," he said. "We make the rocks drink someone else's courage first."
He traced a line from coast to Bellary.
"The Company believes Bellary feeds us," he said. "Let's teach them that Bellary starves them instead."
II. Council of the Dakshina Mandala
They met again, not in full conclave, but as a smaller war council.
Present:
Narasimha,
Avuku Raju,
Bhima Nayak,
Mallappa Gowda,
Sri,
Ayyappa,
Jagannatha Setty representing coastal merchants,
and a few key Trinetra coordinators.
On the central map, Bellary fortress was sketched:
the steep hill,
the main gate,
smaller postern doors,
nearby town,
wells, granaries.
Raju jabbed a finger at the drawing.
"That," he said, "is a thorn in my heel. I've raided their convoys for years, but the fort itself sits like a fat spider, watching the roads. They use it to send men into my hills whenever they feel bored."
Bhima grunted.
"They pressure our villages from there," he said. "Collect taxes, 'recruit' our boys as sepoys. If we take it…"
"Carefully," Narasimha interjected.
"If we take it carefully," Bhima amended, "then Ballari becomes the Mandala's western gate instead of the Company's."
Jagannatha Setty tapped a fingernail against the map.
"Our merchants know Bellary well," he said. "We deliver grain, ghee, salt, cloth. Our caravans pass their checkpoints. If we change the flow, the fort will feel hunger like everyone else."
Sri pointed to the sketched roads.
"Trinetra reports," she said, "that Bellary's garrison is:
roughly 600 men,
about 150 European officers and soldiers,
the rest sepoys from various regiments.
They have provision stores for perhaps a month and a half in normal circumstances."
Narasimha's eyes narrowed.
"And if normal circumstances… stop?" he asked.
"Then," Sri said, "they will be chewing leather in three weeks."
Avuku Raju grinned.
"So we do not take Bellary with ladders and laddus," he said. "We take it with… emptiness."
Narasimha nodded slowly.
"Three pillars," he said. "First: cut supply lines. Second: turn key sepoys inside. Third: isolate them with messages—make them feel abandoned."
Ayyappa cracked his knuckles.
"You want a twenty-day siege," he said. "Not of stone. Of stomach."
"Exactly," Narasimha replied. "Sieges that drag for months drain us as much as them. I don't want to sit under Bellary's shadow until my beard turns white. We squeeze hard, fast, intelligently."
He looked at each ally.
"Can it be done?" he asked.
Raju's smile turned sharp.
"Cutting roads and ambushing convoys?" he scoffed. "You're asking a fish if it can swim."
Setty nodded.
"I can quietly… re-route… shipments," he said. "Delays in port. Mysterious 'storms'. Missing bullocks. Within days, the garrison quartermaster will stare at empty columns in his ledger."
Sri added,
"Trinetra already has watchers in Bellary town. We know names of some sepoys inside with families in nearby villages. Men who resent the Company."
Narasimha exhaled.
"Then we have our plan," he said. "We kill no more than we must. We break no more stone than necessary. We let hunger and doubt do half our work."
"And the other half?" Bhima asked.
Narasimha's eyes hardened.
"Words," he said. "And pigeons."
III. The Noose Drawn in Silence
The siege of Bellary began before a single rebel set foot near its walls.
It began in markets.
In Machilipatnam, a shipment of rice sacks destined for Bellary was "delayed" by a supposed bureaucratic error.
In Kurnool, a riverboat carrying ghee for Company stores mysteriously found itself reassigned to "urgent temple deliveries" upriver.
Documents, all perfectly stamped and signed, confirmed these changes.
Paper, wielded by Mandala-friendly clerks and merchants, moved more quietly than swords.
On the roads, Avuku Raju and Bhima Nayak turned the hills vicious.
Company convoys heading toward Bellary:
found culverts collapsed,
bridges mysteriously weakened,
guides "losing their way" into ravines where waiting men in the rocks offered a choice:
"Leave the carts and live. Or die with them."
Most chose to live.
"Banditry," the Company reports would later say.
The Mandala knew better.
"Fasting," Sri called it dryly. "We're putting the fort on a diet."
Meanwhile, in Bellary itself, Trinetra seeds sprouted.
In cramped sepoy barracks, letters arrived.
Not official ones, with Company stamps.
Personal ones.
From mothers. Wives. Brothers.
Brought by hand from "friends on the road," they said.
In truth, carried by Trinetra men and slipped into the right hands.
The words differed, but the undercurrent was the same:
"The sahibs beat us harder for tax."
"They take our grain and give us little."
"They say you fight for the King-Emperor, but the lion in Rayalaseema fights for us."
"If he takes Bellary, will you stand in his way? Or stand with your own?"
Some sepoys scoffed.
Some hid the letters carefully.
Some, late at night, re-read them by lamplight, feeling their hearts pulled in two directions.
Above them, in the officer quarters, British lieutenants muttered about "low supplies" and "irregular deliveries."
The garrison commander, Major William Cartwright, dismissed such concerns at first.
"Temporary dislocation," he said. "Madras will correct it. They always do."
But when weeks passed and the supply wagons still did not arrive as scheduled, even he frowned at the fort's dwindling stores.
IV. The Lion Comes to the Hill
Only when the invisible noose was firmly in place did Narasimha march.
His force approaching Bellary was not the full might he had used on the plains.
He brought:
1,500 infantry—lean, battle-tested,
100 cavalry for rapid strikes,
a smaller detachment of elephants (Bellary's approaches were steep; elephants were symbolic as much as practical here),
and a core of Tiger Corps.
The main Mandala strength remained spread, ready to respond elsewhere.
This was not a war of one fort alone.
They camped outside Bellary's cannon range on the second evening, their tents a silent ring beyond the town.
From the fortress ramparts, British sentries squinted at the unfamiliar banners:
Rayalaseema colours,
Ballari clan symbols,
some Tamil flags discreetly present,
no single imperial emblem.
Cartwright watched through his spyglass.
"So," he muttered. "The lion has decided to visit."
Harwood would have used different words.
But Harwood was not at Bellary.
Cartwright believed in:
walls,
guns,
and the weight of British prestige.
"We'll see how long their courage lasts under our cannon," he said.
He did not know the cannons had only as much powder as Sri's ledgers allowed.
That evening, Narasimha climbed a low hill across from Bellary's rocky mass.
The fort loomed:
thick ramparts,
bastions jutting like clenched fists,
silhouettes of guns.
Avuku Raju joined him, arms crossed.
"I've raided under this shadow for ten years," Raju said. "Feels strange to camp in front of it like this. Like sitting down to eat in front of a tiger you've only ever seen from the bushes."
Narasimha nodded slowly.
"You know its moods," he said. "That's why I need you here."
He studied the fort.
"We won't try to climb those walls," he said. "Not unless we want to paint them red with our own men. We'll close the roads. We'll talk to the town. We let Bellary sit in its own stomach."
Ayyappa approached with a report.
"Town folk already whispering," he said. "Some are glad we're here. Others fear bombardment. They've lived under the Company long enough to know the price of being near a rebel front."
Narasimha's jaw set.
"We do not fire on the town," he said. "Not unless the town itself turns into a gun pointed at us. Our quarrel is with the fort, not the people in its shadow."
He looked up at the walls.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "we knock."
"On the gate?" Raju asked.
"On their minds," Narasimha replied.
V. Pigeons and Promises
On the second day of the siege, Bellary woke to an unsettling sight.
Tied to arrows that thudded harmlessly into the dry ground before the main gate were…
… scrolls.
On the walls, sepoys and officers watched as a Tiger Corps archer loosed a few more, all landing within clear view.
"Careful!" a British sergeant barked. "Could be… curses. Or something."
A sepoy beside him snorted quietly.
"Paper curses?" he muttered.
Curiosity won.
The scrolls were retrieved and brought to Cartwright.
He unrolled one, jaw tense.
The script was firm, the Telugu and Persian clear; an English translation followed beneath.
"To the Soldiers and Officers of the Bellary Garrison,
I am Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy of Rayalaseema, ally of Avuku Raju and the chiefs of the Dakshina Mandala.
You know what happened at Kadapa. You heard what happened on the Rayalaseema Plains. You see that your supplies have not arrived, your convoys have vanished, your grain stores shrink.
I am not here to slaughter you in your beds, nor to tear down this fort on your heads. I am here to take from the Company what it has used to choke our lands.
Your choice is simple:
– You can die slowly of hunger, unpaid and unhonoured, for a flag that will forget your names.
– Or you can lay down arms, hand over the fort peacefully, and walk out alive, with safe passage to your homes or to other garrisons if you insist on continuing their service.
Sepoys who surrender will be given water and allowed to leave or to stay under new banners. European officers will be treated as prisoners of war under honourable terms.
I give you twenty days. After that, hunger will decide for you.
– U.N.R."
Cartwright's face went red.
"Arrogant bastard," he spat. "Does he think we'll hand him a fort like a wedding gift?"
A junior officer, more thoughtful, swallowed.
"Sir," he said quietly, "our stores…"
"I know our stores!" Cartwright snapped. "Madras will send relief. We hold."
On the walls, the letter—translated in whispers—spread among sepoys.
Twenty days.
Safe passage.
A choice.
That night, as moonlight bathed the stone, tiny shapes fluttered in the darkness above and around the fort.
Pigeons.
Bellary had its own pigeon loft, used for messages to nearby posts.
Trinetra had long since mapped its routines.
Now, new birds joined the pattern.
Some flew from the rebel camp with seemingly aimless flutters, then settled on the ramparts where sepoys tossed grains.
They bore:
minuscule scrolls tied under wing,
coded knots on thread.
A sepoy named Ramaiah, whose brother had earlier sent letters of suffering from a village under extra tax burden, found one such pigeon.
He scooped it gently, fingers recognising Trinetra's subtle marks.
When he unrolled the tiny scroll in secret, it read:
"Brother,
You have heard of Rayalaseema's lion. I write as one of many who has seen his men share water with our children after battles.
If he takes Bellary with blood, your hands will be stained for little gain. If he takes it with your help, your family may sleep easier.
Think: Will the sahibs starve beside you? Or will they take the last of the grain and leave you to rot?
– A Friend in Trinetra"
In his bunk that night, Ramaiah stared at the ceiling.
Outside, he heard officers arguing about ration cuts.
Somewhere in the fort, a quartermaster locked a storehouse with fumbling fingers.
VI. Stone and Stomach
Days passed.
The rebels did not assault the walls.
They:
tightened their ring around the fort,
dug trenches,
placed watch posts to intercept any messenger or small convoy,
built simple earthen works as defence against cannon fire.
The British fired a few warning shots from Bellary's guns, more to remind themselves they had them than to achieve anything.
They dared not expend powder too freely.
Inside the fort, the real enemy was not rebel steel.
It was arithmetic.
On the fifth day, the garrison quartermaster reported:
"Sir, at current ration levels, we have food for perhaps… twenty-five days. Less if we keep feeding the town refugees we let in when you ordered the gates opened."
Cartwright scowled.
"The town outside is not our responsibility once they leave the walls," he said stiffly.
"But some have already entered, sir," the quartermaster said nervously. "Traders, families of sepoys—"
Cartwright slammed his fist on the table.
"Then we cut rations," he said. "For everyone except key positions. Officers, gunners. The rest can tighten their belts."
Word spread quickly.
In the barracks, men grumbled.
"Of course," one sepoy sneered. "Their bellies first. Ours last."
Ramaiah kept his voice low.
"If Narasimha wins," he whispered to a bunkmate, "do you think he'll treat his people like this?"
The bunkmate shrugged uneasily.
"I hear he hates paperwork," he said. "That is the kind of leader I trust."
Laughter, even strained, eased something.
Outside the walls, Narasimha watched and waited.
Every sunset, he asked Sri the same question.
"Any deserters?" he'd ask.
"Any pigeons returning with answers?"
On the eighth day, Sri nodded.
"Three sepoys slipped through a drainage culvert last night," she said. "They came straight to our outpost, hands raised."
Narasimha exhaled.
"And?" he asked.
"They confirm what we suspected," Sri replied. "Rations cut. Some officers already hoarding. Sepoys angry. If we push too hard with bombardment, their officers will rally them with, 'See? The rebels are brutal.' If we keep up the siege and the messages, the anger will turn the other way."
Ayyappa frowned.
"This is a different kind of battle," he muttered. "I don't like waiting for stomachs to do what swords can."
Narasimha clapped his shoulder.
"Trust me," he said. "My stomach hates waiting too. But this is how we win Bellary without turning it into a graveyard."
VII. Cracks in Stone Hearts
By the twelfth day, the fort's atmosphere had changed.
The crisp discipline of the early days had dulled.
Men moved slower.
Faces hollowed.
Cartwright paced more, barked orders more sharply, but his own uniform hung looser.
The quartermaster's updates grew more bleak.
"Eighteen days of half-rations left, sir," he said. "Less, if disease spreads."
"And Madras?" Cartwright demanded. "Any word? Any sign of relief columns?"
"None yet," the reply came. "Pigeons we sent… may have been intercepted. Or lost."
He did not say:
"Or shot down by Trinetra archers who know the sky as well as the earth."
In the sepoy barracks, another pigeon arrived.
This time, the message was more direct:
"If your officers refuse surrender, you do not have to die with them. At the next new moon, if you lay down arms at the north postern gate and raise a white cloth, our men will not fire. You will be allowed to leave in peace."
Ramaiah showed it to two trusted comrades.
"What do you say?" one whispered.
Ramaiah's jaw worked.
"My father says a man must know who he stands for, not just who he stands against," he said slowly. "These sahibs… don't even know my children's names."
"And the lion?" the other asked.
Ramaiah remembered rumours:
rebels sharing food with surrendered sepoys,
Narasimha speaking to common men like brothers.
"I don't know him either," he replied. "But I know how he fights. And how he feeds. That's something."
VIII. The Night of Choice
On the nineteenth night of the siege, moonlight silvered Bellary's black rock.
In the rebel camp, Narasimha sat with Sri and Avuku Raju over a simple meal.
"Tomorrow is the twentieth day," Sri said. "The deadline you set in your letter."
Ayyappa had already voiced what many thought.
"If they haven't surrendered by then," he had said earlier, "we cannot wait much longer. Our own supplies do not last forever."
Narasimha poked his food thoughtfully.
"True," he said now. "If they do not break by morning, we may have to… adjust. Perhaps a limited assault. A breach at a weak point."
Raju grimaced.
"I'll climb your cursed walls if I must," he said. "But I would rather not fall off them for nothing."
Sri's eyes were on the fort silhouette.
"Trinetra runners report unusual movement inside tonight," she said. "More frequent patrol changes. Some shouting earlier near the northern wall."
Narasimha looked up sharply.
"Shouting between whom?" he asked.
"Sepoys and officers, it seems," she replied. "We could not catch words. Only tones."
He set his plate aside.
"Then we wait and we watch," he said.
"Not as if we have anything else to do," he added under his breath.
Raju snorted.
"King complains about waiting," he said. "Try keeping raiders from sneaking out for mischief when there's a big juicy fort right there and you've told them 'No'. That is true torture."
Narasimha actually laughed.
"Fair," he conceded.
That night, around the second watch, a quiet ripple moved through the rebel lines.
A runner arrived, out of breath.
"Simha Dora!" he hissed. "North side. Look!"
Narasimha, Raju, Sri, and Ayyappa hurried up a low mound that gave a clear view of Bellary's northern postern area.
There, faintly visible in the moonlight, something pale fluttered above the small gate.
A cloth.
White.
Narasimha's breath caught.
"Did we send any men to signal?" he asked.
Sri shook her head, eyes wide.
"No," she said. "That… that is them."
On the wall nearby, small figures argued desperately.
Even at a distance, their body language was clear:
some urging,
some resisting,
weapons half-raised, half-lowered.
Then, suddenly, a gunshot cracked the night.
A man on the parapet jerked and fell.
Another shoved someone aside and flung the white cloth higher.
A horn blew softly in the rebel camp—Trinetra's prearranged signal.
"Tiger Corps to advance," Ayyappa translated instinctively.
Narasimha grabbed his arm.
"Slow," he warned. "We go to receive surrender, not pounce on prey. Any sign of over-eagerness and nervous men on those walls will start shooting."
He raised his voice.
"Signal 'parley'!" he ordered. "No arrows. No sudden movement. We send a delegation."
Under his instructions, a small group rode forward:
Narasimha himself at the front,
Sri, unarmed but visibly authoritative,
a Trinetra negotiator familiar with Bellary dialects,
a few unarmoured escorts, hands open.
At a safe distance from the wall, they halted.
Narasimha called up in a clear voice.
"Bellary!" he shouted. "You raised white. I have come. Will you talk like men, or will you hide behind rocks and let hunger talk for you?"
For a moment, there was only wind.
Then, a figure leaned over the battlements—sepoy uniform, not British coat.
"Dora!" he called in cracked Telugu. "We… we want to talk! The sahibs… some want to fight to the last. Others—"
Behind him, Cartwright appeared, eyes wild.
"You will do no such thing!" the Major thundered. "Get away from that wall, you treacherous dog!"
He yanked at the white cloth, trying to rip it down.
A scuffle broke out visibly on the parapet.
Shouts.
A flash of steel.
Another sepoy dragged Cartwright back.
He resisted, then crumpled as a rifle butt struck the back of his head—delivered by one of his own disgruntled men.
A collective intake of breath spread through both sides.
Sri murmured under her breath, "Well. That escalated."
Eventually, a different face appeared—a senior subedar (native officer), moustache greying, eyes haunted.
"Uyyalawada Dora," he called down. "We… we are done. We have no food, little powder, no hope of relief. If we keep fighting, we die for sahibs who dine better than us. If we surrender, maybe our families see us again."
His voice broke slightly on the last line.
Narasimha's stance softened.
"Subedar garu," he called back respectfully. "You and your men have fought under orders. I do not call you cowards for choosing life over pointless death. I repeat what I wrote."
He raised his hand, counting off.
"European officers and men will be treated as prisoners under honour," he said. "No slaughter. Sepoys who surrender will be disarmed, given water and food, and allowed:
to go home,
or to stay and serve under us,
or to leave to other posts if your conscience insists you continue under their flag.
We will not force."
He paused.
"But," he added, voice firm, "you will hand over Bellary's guns, powder, and keys. The fort becomes ours. That is not negotiable."
The subedar looked back at his fellows.
Then he nodded, shoulders sagging.
"We agree," he said. "Please… let us come out alive."
IX. Twenty Days
At dawn of the twentieth day—the exact deadline Narasimha had set—the gates of Bellary opened.
Not in a triumphant rush.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
Rebel ranks parted to create a corridor.
From within the fort, they emerged:
first, a few British officers, some bruised, one bandaged—Cartwright among them, livid and humiliated but alive;
then columns of sepoys, weapons slung but muzzles pointed down, some with heads bowed, others glancing around nervously;
finally, civilian camp followers, women and children who had sought refuge inside when the siege began.
Narasimha stood at the side of the corridor, not at its end.
He did not need to loom as a victor.
He needed to be seen.
As each British officer passed, he gave a curt nod.
"You will be held," he said in clipped English learnt in childhood dealings, "not harmed. You may write to your superiors, informing them that Bellary has changed flags. Do not lie. Hunger is a poor foundation for bravery."
Cartwright nearly choked at being addressed in his own language by a "native rebel."
"You… you will regret this insolence," he hissed.
Narasimha's gaze cooled.
"I regret many things," he said. "Let's see where on the list your opinion lands."
Sri smothered a smile.
When the sepoys began to file out, the tone shifted.
Narasimha stepped forward.
"Water!" he called.
Clay pots were brought.
He gestured them forward.
"Drink," he told the sepoys. "You chose life. That is a good beginning."
One by one, dusty, hungry men accepted the cups.
Some looked ashamed.
Some relieved.
Some studied Narasimha's face, as if trying to match it with rumours.
Ramaiah, thinner now but standing straighter, tried not to stare.
At last, he gave in.
"Dora," he blurted. "Is it true… you fought on the plains like Narasimha Swami himself?"
Narasimha huffed.
"The Swami has much better hair," he said dryly. "I am just a tired man who hates paperwork and tyrants in equal measure."
Laughter rippled.
Tension eased a notch.
Ayyappa stepped up.
"Listen," he told the gathered sepoys in a carrying voice. "You have options. None involve a noose, unless you decide to do something very stupid. If you wish to go home, tell Trinetra scribes your village. We will see you reach it when paths are safer. If you wish to stay and fight here, under new banners, step to the right. If you insist on continuing Company service, step to the left. We will escort you to neutral ground later."
The crowd split.
Many stepped toward "home."
A fair number, after glancing at Narasimha and their fellow sepoys, moved toward "stay and fight."
Very few chose "left."
Those who did looked uncertain, as if stepping into fog.
Narasimha watched them all with a strange mixture of pride and sadness.
"We are breaking one chain," he thought. "Another always waits."
X. Integration, Not Conquest
Taking Bellary's fort was only half the work.
The other half began immediately: integrating the region without turning it into an occupied wound.
Narasimha convened a Bellary Sabha in the fort's main hall.
Present:
Avuku Raju,
Bhima Nayak,
Mallappa Gowda,
local village headmen from around Ballari,
merchants who had done business under both British and older Mysore rule,
a few priests from nearby temples.
He stood before them, not in gleaming kingly armour, but in simple war-leader attire.
"This fort," he said, "has been many things:
a crown jewel for ancient dynasties,
a watchtower for the Company,
a thorn in our sides.
From today, it is none of those alone. It is the western pillar of the Dakshina Mandala."
He gestured to Avuku Raju.
"Raju," he said, "you know these rocks better than any of us. Your riders have bled on these roads. I ask you to serve as Ballari Kshetra Rakshak—Guardian of the Bellary Region."
Raju blinked.
"You're… putting me in charge?" he asked, almost suspicious.
Narasimha smirked.
"Don't look so horrified," he said. "It's not a throne. It's… more paperwork."
Groans and chuckles followed.
Raju groaned theatrically.
"I knew there was a trap," he said. "Can I just keep raiding and let Sri do the paperwork?"
Sri raised a brow.
"You're welcome to try," she said. "We'll see how long it takes before your own men mutiny due to missing rations."
Serious again, Narasimha continued.
"Raju will coordinate defence and raids as needed," he said. "But in matters of tax, land disputes, temple administration—local Sabha stays. We do not rip out your customs and plant Rayalaseema's like a wrong crop in wrong soil."
He looked at the village heads.
"Taxes under the Company were heavy, often arbitrary," he said. "Under the Dakshina Mandala, you will:
pay less coin,
more in kind when harvests are good,
and none when they fail.
But when we call for manpower or grain to feed forts that protect you, we expect you to answer."
A village head, old and careful, asked,
"And what of justice, Dora? When a man of Ballari wrongs a man of Rayalaseema here, or a Mandala soldier harms our people?"
Narasimha nodded, expecting it.
"Then the case comes here," he said, tapping the fort floor. "To a mixed court:
one Rayalaseema magistrate,
one local elder,
one representative of the merchants.
We listen. We judge. We punish—even if the man is wearing my colours."
He felt the weight of those words.
"I will curse myself later," he thought, "for making it easier for people to drag my men into hearings."
But aloud, he said,
"If we replace one arrogant master with another, what have we actually gained?"
The hall murmured.
Some sceptical.
Some hopeful.
Jagannatha Setty stepped forward.
"As for trade," he said, "we will ensure:
that ships still dock,
that caravans still roll,
that Bellary's markets do not go silent.
The only difference is that tariffs once paid to the Company will now feed the Mandala and your own works, not some shareholder in London whose only knowledge of Ballari is as a spot on a map."
A priest added,
"Temple lands?"
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"Gods have eaten from these lands longer than any of us have used them," he said. "They will not starve under us. But temple silver will not be used to bribe corrupt officials on any side. Agreed?"
Reluctant nods.
It was a start.
XI. Gods and Marvel's Shadow
In the celestial realms, Bellary's capture shimmered as a new node in the Mandala's light.
Lakshmi watched as coin flows shifted:
fewer rupees crossing into cold foreign ledgers,
more directed locally.
"See?" she said. "He remembers my domain too. Not just swords."
Parvati nodded.
"Every fortress he takes, he tries to give back to the land instead of turning it into a personal jewel," she said. "That is… unusual."
Saraswati hummed.
"Bellary lends the Mandala depth," she mused. "The western flank is no longer porous. When future wars sweep through—British, princely, global—this stone spine will complicate their plans."
Maheshwara's gaze drifted forward again, to a future when global conflicts would span continents and skies.
"In Marvel's age," he said, "there will be other fortresses:
helicarriers in the sky,
secret mountain bases,
orbital stations.
Some will fall to brute force. Others will be… turned from within, as Bellary was—starved, convinced, redirected."
Vishnu smiled faintly.
"Uyyalawada Narasimha," he said, "is learning all the different flavours of victory:
blood-soaked,
patient,
negotiated.
When he steps into Marvel's story centuries from now, he will recognize in SHIELD's corridors and Hydra's nests the same patterns he saw in Bellary's stone."
Brahma wrote:
Siege of Bellary: U.N.R. and Dakshina Mandala employ economic blockade (Merchant Alliance), road interdictions (Ballari chiefs), and psychological operations (Trinetra letters, pigeon messages) to force surrender in ~20 days. Minimal direct assault; garrison capitulates under food shortage and internal sepoy-officer tensions. Region integrated peacefully into Mandala structure: Ballari designated western pillar, local governance retained with shared courts and adjusted taxation. Reinforces Mandala's legitimacy and strategic depth.
XII. Lion and Rock
On the evening after Bellary's formal handover, Narasimha stood alone atop the ramparts.
The wind up here was different.
Cooler.
Carrying scents from:
iron-rich rocks,
distant groves,
cooking fires in the town below now burning with less fear.
Avuku Raju joined him, leaning against the parapet.
"Feels strange," Raju said quietly. "Look at that."
He pointed.
Below, in the courtyard, former sepoys now sat side by side with Mandala fighters, sharing food and laughter.
Some, already in new tunics, practised drills under Ayyappa's watchful eye.
"That fort, which once glared at us," Raju continued, "now feeds our men. The same stones, different heartbeat."
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"That is all a fort is," he said. "Stone and heartbeat. Change one, you change everything."
Raju eyed him.
"So," he said, mock-gruff, "Kshetra Rakshak, eh? Guardian of Bellary. Going to start wearing a crown of rocks now?"
Narasimha groaned.
"If it makes you feel better," he said, "know that I intend to dump as much administrative burden on you as possible. My Mandala doesn't run on my charisma. It runs on people like you not letting British agents creep back in."
Raju sighed dramatically.
"Fine," he said. "But when Marvel's shiny heroes show up in a century and talk about how hard their lives are, I'm going to throw a Ballari ledger at their heads and say, 'Try balancing this.'"
Narasimha blinked.
"Marvel?" he echoed.
Raju shrugged, almost conspiratorially.
"Just a feeling," he said, eyes twinkling in a way that suggested the gods might have whispered more in his dreams than in most men's.
Narasimha snorted.
"Leave prophecy to sages," he said. "We have enough trouble handling today."
He looked west, where the land rolled toward other kingdoms, other stories.
"We've taken Bellary," he said softly. "Rayalaseema, Kadapa, the Plains, now this. The Mandala grows."
He could almost feel, in his bones, future echoes:
trains cutting across these lands,
telegraph wires humming,
cities rising,
and, far later, portals opening in the sky above alien metal.
For now, though, there was only:
stone under his feet,
a circle of allies,
a people beginning to believe that British invincibility was a myth.
He rested his hands on the rough parapet.
"The more we gain," he murmured, "the more I must guard. The lion is slowly becoming… a shepherd."
Raju grinned.
"You always were both," he said. "You just refused to admit it."
Below them, Bellary's lights flickered like a small constellation.
Not conquered.
Rewritten.
Part of the Dakshina Mandala now.
A western eye
in a growing web
spun by a Deathless Lion
who had decided,
for today,
that the greatest victory was not how many enemies bled,
but how many stones changed the story they stood for.
✦ End of Chapter 38 – "The Siege of Bellary" ✦