✦ I. The Empire Strikes (Too) Late
The coronation in Kesarinagara did not stay a rumour for long.
By the time the last garland had dried, British intelligence in Madras had already begun to tremble.
New reports piled up on Harwood's desk:
"Open use of a 'Lion Banner'…"
"Public acclaim of Narasimha Reddy as 'Raja'…"
"Native songs now speak of a 'Dakshina Rajya'…"
In a high-ceilinged room under a slowly creaking fan, the Madras Governor stared at a particularly alarming dispatch from Bellary.
"…troops report local populations refusing to pay Company tax, stating they are already taxed by 'our own king in Kesarinagara'. Attempts at forcible collection are met with organised resistance, not random mobs…"
He crushed the paper.
"This has gone too far," he hissed.
Around the table, senior officers and Company men shifted uneasily.
Harwood laid out a map, now cluttered with red ink.
"This," he said, tapping it, "is no longer a series of small bushfires. This is a controlled burn threatening to jump the firebreak."
His finger traced:
Rayalaseema,
Ballari,
Tamil country,
coastal nodes,
Mysore's border,
Travancore and Cochin far south.
"If we allow this 'Dakshina Rajya' to harden," he warned, "we may as well draw a line across the subcontinent and admit we have lost half our southern interior."
The Governor's lips thinned.
"What do you propose?" he asked.
Harwood took a breath.
"In coordination with Calcutta," he said, "we assemble a major force:
two full regiments from Madras,
sepoy battalions from loyal princely states,
artillery batteries drawn from quieter sectors,
cavalry from our best native contingents.
We push in three prongs:
From Madras inland towards Chittoor and Rayalaseema.
From the north, using Nizam-aligned lanes to threaten from Hyderabad side.
From the west, via Company-loyal pockets in Karnataka, to pry Bellary loose.
We move with speed. We force decisive engagements. We cut off Kesarinagara before it consolidates further."
"And what of Mysore? Travancore? Cochin?" a civilian official asked. "They have their own scores with us…"
Harwood's jaw tightened.
"We lean on the Nizam," he said. "Hyderabad's court still enjoys our favour. They can be persuaded to… keep Mysore busy with border disputes, hemming in Wodeyar ambitions. As for Travancore and Cochin—we remind them politely of our treaties, our ability to disrupt their coast trade if they misbehave."
The Governor squared his shoulders.
"Then it is decided," he said. "We will break this lion. I will not be the Governor under whose watch a 'Southern Realm' blooms."
Orders shot out.
From Calcutta, from London, grudging authorisations followed.
The Empire was moving.
Too slowly, as it turned out.
Because Narasimha's Trinetra had already seen the storm hours before it broke.
II. Trinetra Sees Three Steps Ahead
In a quiet room in Kesarinagara, far from the ceremonial halls, the true war council met.
On the table lay not garlands, but intercepted letters:
copies of British orders,
troop mobilisations,
supply requisitions from Madras and Bangalore,
reports from Trinetra agents embedded as clerks, grooms, porters.
The symbol of Trinetra—a subtle three-eyed mark—was stamped on each report.
Sri moved tokens across a detailed map:
small wooden elephants for British artillery,
horses for cavalry,
coloured stones for infantry columns.
Venkanna watched, lips pursed.
"They're throwing a lot," Ayyappa commented, leaning over. "That's… flattering."
Narasimha exhaled slowly.
"It's overdue," he said. "We shouted our existence under their noses; it was only a matter of time before they stopped pretending not to hear."
Sri tapped three spots on the map.
"Madras prong here," she said. "Hyderabad–Nizam-aligned column here, westward push here. If they all arrive on schedule and we fight them like an old kingdom would—head-on, honourably—they have a chance of grinding us down."
Narasimha's eyes narrowed.
"Good thing we are not an old kingdom," he said. "We are a Mandala. A web."
He looked at the faces around him:
Venkanna,
Sri,
Ayyappa,
Raja Pandiyan (back from Madurai),
Avuku Raju and Bhima Nayak from Bellary,
coastal merchant chiefs like Jagannatha Setty,
emissaries from Mysore, Travancore, Cochin.
A Mysore envoy, a sharp-eyed Wodeyar commander named Chamaraja Urs, spoke first.
"Wodeyar sends word," he said. "We take no joy in open war against the Company's full might—our state still bears scars from earlier defeats. But your Mandala's rise offers something we've not seen in a long time: a native power that is not immediately hungry to swallow us."
He smiled faintly.
"In short, Raja Simha, we would rather be your conditional allies than the Company's obedient servants. We will commit troops, but understand—Hyderabad will be watching our every move."
From the southern tip, a Travancore representative, Rama Varma Thampuran, added:
"Travancore remembers Velu Thampi Dalawa," he said quietly. "We remember how Company pressure and our own court politics ended that uprising. We will not repeat those errors blindly. But we will:
provide arms from our coastal sources,
allow your forces refuge and resupply in our lands,
and coordinate harassment of Company movement near our borders."
A Cochin factor nodded in agreement.
"We may be small," he said, "but we know these coasts better than any Calcutta map."
Narasimha listened.
"I don't need you to throw yourselves into a fire on my name," he said. "I need you to pull levers that only you can pull. Trip wires the British don't even know exist."
He traced the routes with his fingers.
"Here is how we answer their counteroffensive."
III. Weapons from Rival Thrones
Before discussing troops, they had to talk teeth.
Until now, the Mandala had fought with:
local muskets and matchlocks,
captured Company arms,
bows, spears, swords,
clever tactics.
But against a concentrated, reinforced British push, they needed parity in firepower.
"We have been quietly preparing," Jagannatha Setty said, with the air of a man revealing a particularly satisfying trade. "While you were busy playing king, some of us were… shopping."
He rolled out a cloth bundle.
Inside lay:
a sleekly crafted flintlock musket, finer than local copies,
a set of rifled muskets with longer range, French-made,
several percussion cap pistols—cutting-edge pieces smuggled before widespread adoption,
sample shells and improved gunpowder.
"These," he said, "are from:
French factors who still nurse grudges and ambitions,
Dutch traders who care more for profit than politics,
a few American captains who hate British monopoly in Eastern trade,
even some Ottoman-tied merchants willing to send surplus arms from farther west.
Nothing too obvious. No nation wants to be caught officially aiding rebellion. But in the grey zones of trade, we have acquired:
muskets equal to or better than Company issue,
select rifled pieces for sharpshooters,
improved artillery shot and fuses."
Sri raised an eyebrow.
"And what did this cost us?" she asked.
"Favourable spice deals. Future port access. Promises that Dakshina Rajya will remember who extended a hand when we were not yet on any European map," Setty replied.
Narasimha hefted one of the French rifles.
It sat nicely.
"Good," he said. "Let the Company think only they can send weapons across oceans. We will show them otherwise."
Venkanna added,
"We can also integrate these with our native strengths. Our men know the land. Their muskets know the range. Together, that's more dangerous than any one advantage."
The Travancore representative chimed in.
"Along the coasts," he said, "we can:
intercept British shipments quietly,
redirect some to your depots,
ensure that certain 'bad batches' go to Company depots instead."
"Bad batches?" Ayyappa asked.
Jagannatha grinned.
"Powder that misfires under damp conditions," he said. "Balls slightly off-size. A few spoiled shells in every crate. Enough to sow doubt in their lines."
Sri smiled.
"Psychological warfare via quality control," she said. "I approve."
IV. The Mandala War Plan
With weapons and allies accounted for, the real game began.
Narasimha planted his palm over the map.
"Listen," he said. "This is not a war we can win by trying to match them parade for parade. They want:
big, decisive engagements,
straight-line marches,
fort vs fort,
banners facing.
We will give them… the opposite."
He began to outline.
Scorched-Earth Avoidance, South-Style
"We will not burn our own fields as some empires do," he said. "I refuse to starve my people to win a war. But we will:
evacuate grain from any village on their projected path,
move livestock and valuables to pre-arranged hill and forest caches,
leave behind only enough to avoid immediate suspicion."
Sri nodded.
"Our earlier work with emergency granaries will pay off now," she said. "Every cluster of villages in vulnerable areas will have:
a hidden grain pit,
a concealed arm cache,
and an escape path."
Narasimha went on.
"When their troops arrive, they will find:
no large herds to requisition,
no big warehouses to loot,
no easy food.
They will have to depend on their own long, stretched supply lines."
Psychological Warfare
"We will attack not just their bodies," he said, eyes narrowing, "but their confidence.
Trinetra agents will spread rumours:
that our men can see in the dark,
that their bullets bounce off our lion warriors (we know it's not true; it doesn't matter),
that whole columns have vanished overnight.
At night:
drums and conch shells will sound from different directions,
small fires will appear and vanish,
shadows will move at the edges of their camps.
We want them tired before battle even begins."
Intelligence Sabotage
Sri tapped specific courier routes.
"Our people inside their clerk lines will:
misfile marching orders,
'accidentally' transpose crucial numbers,
ensure some units leave with less powder than they think,
pass on false intelligence suggesting that Nava forces are massed where they are not.
By the time they realise their maps are lies, they will be too deep."
Terrain Traps
Avuku Raju grinned, feral.
"Leave the rocks to us," he said. "Bellary and the hillmen of Nallamala will:
rig narrow passes with collapsible rockfalls,
pre-dig pits in certain valley floors, covered with brush,
prepare dead-end ravines that look inviting from a distance.
We will let their scouts see 'shortcut' paths, then close them like jaws."
Mysore's commander added,
"And in the western ghats, Wodeyar's forces will:
harry any British attempt to flank from that side,
use our knowledge of forest paths to outmarch them,
feign weakness when needed to draw them into unfavorable ground."
Coordinated Multi-Front Strikes
"This is the key," Narasimha said. "We are not a single kingdom. We are a network. When Madras sends its columns, we answer like this:
When the Madras–Rayalaseema column is halfway to our projected lines, Travancore provokes trouble near their southern coastal arteries.
When the Hyderabad–Nizam-aligned prong moves, Mysore creates enough noise along the border that the Nizam hesitates to commit fully.
When the western prong nears Bellary, Tamil rebels strike supply depots near Salem and Dharmapuri.
We don't let them concentrate comfortably.
We keep their high command asking, 'Where do we send reinforcements first?'—while we already know the answer."
He looked up.
"We do not want one glorious battle poem," he said. "We want:
three months of steady erosion,
followed by one decisive strike when their morale is lowest."
Venkanna nodded.
"The lion hunts by exhausting prey before the throat-bite," he said. "Let us be lion."
V. Nizam's Half-Shadow
The question of Hyderabad could not be ignored.
"If the Nizam throws his full weight behind the British," Sri said, "they can:
send cavalry south faster than we expect,
use his territory as safe staging,
threaten our northern flank."
Mysore's representative frowned.
"Nizam's court is deeply enmeshed with Company influence," he said. "But they also fear us—and you—growing too strong. They will hesitate to commit all at once."
Narasimha drummed his fingers.
"Then we give them reason to sit on their hands," he said.
Trinetra agents had already been whispering in Hyderabad's alleys.
Soon, they carried carefully crafted rumours:
that Mysore Wodeyar's true plan was not alliance with Narasimha, but reclaiming old territories from both Hyderabad and the Company,
that if Hyderabad overcommitted southward, rivals at its other borders would stir,
that certain British officers spoke of Hyderabad as "a future territory to be tamed, like the others."
A few forged letters—never too obvious—found their way into the right noble hands.
At the same time, emissaries from Dakshina Rajya delivered an official, carefully worded message:
"Dakshina Rajya has no quarrel with Hyderabad—so long as Hyderabad does not march its armies into our lands. We understand British pressure upon your court. We will not force you into open alliance. Simply: do not be the expanded arm of their worst ambitions. If you remain mostly still, so shall we, regarding your borders."
In Hyderabad, the Nizam's advisors argued.
One, panicked, urged full British alignment.
Another, more cautious, said,
"If we bleed our cavalry in these southern hills for British sake, what do we gain? Let the Company handle its own fires. We will watch, ready to bargain with whichever side emerges strongest."
In the end, Hyderabad's official stance became:
supportive in word,
lukewarm in deed.
They allowed some Company movement through their territory.
They did not send their best cavalry south.
Crucially, they committed just enough to keep Wodeyar watching—but not enough to tip the war.
Narasimha, reading the reports, nodded.
"Good," he said. "Let the Nizam sit on his wall and count both sides. By the time he picks one, the war will have moved elsewhere."
VI. The March of the Redcoats
When the British columns finally stepped off, they looked impressive on paper:
Drilled infantry in red and khaki,
artillery wagons creaking with cannon,
cavalry units,
sepoy regiments led by British officers,
engineers and sappers.
From Madras, a column snaked inland.
From the north, a Hyderabad-touched prong edged southward.
From west Karnataka, troops moved toward Bellary.
In villages along their path, people peered from doorways.
"Are they many?" one woman asked her husband.
"Many," he said. "But… the fields they're crossing are emptier than they expect."
Trinetra had already moved:
granaries opened under cover of night,
grain carried on bullock-carts to hidden storerooms,
key wells in open ground rendered undrinkable—not by poison, but by simple, effective fouling: too much salt, excess herbs that made stomachs twist.
The British noticed.
"Odd," one supply officer said. "These villages seem poorer than our last audits suggested. Less grain on hand. Fewer cattle. Did the rebels loot them?"
Another grumbled.
"They probably lied on their reports," he said. "Either way, we press on. We have our own stores."
Their own stores, however, depended on:
timely wagon trains,
depots at certain waypoints.
Depots which, thanks to Mandala's network, had begun to experience "accidents":
fires breaking out mysteriously at night,
barrels "spoiling" unexpectedly,
local drivers mysteriously "losing" their way and arriving days late.
Harwood, riding with the Madras column, felt his unease grow with every day.
"The land feels… empty," he muttered. "Not naturally. Intentionally. He's doing this."
The officer beside him frowned.
"Narasimha Reddy? How? He's only one man."
Harwood almost laughed.
"That," he said, "is what we have consistently failed to understand. He is never 'only one man.' He is a web."
VII. Night of Whispers
The first real taste of Mandala psychological warfare came three weeks into the campaign.
The Madras column had made camp in a valley that, to British maps, seemed ideal:
limited approaches to defend,
access to a spring and a river bend,
moderate tree cover.
To Narasimha's maps, it was a bowl.
Ayyappa inspected it days earlier with Trinetra scouts.
"Like a pot," he said. "Good for cooking."
"For us or them?" a scout asked.
"That," Ayyappa replied, "depends on who lights the fire."
On the night in question, as the British settled:
tents pitched,
fires lit,
sentries posted,
the hills around them… shifted.
Not physically.
Subtly.
A distant drumbeat began—slow, rhythmic, like a heart.
Then another, from a different side.
A conch call, echoing strangely.
A snatch of a war song in Telugu, then in Tamil, carried on the wind.
The British sentries stiffened.
"Where is that coming from?" one demanded.
"Everywhere," another muttered.
In truth, Mandala warriors had:
placed small, mobile drum teams around the rim of the valley,
moved them in patterns to create the illusion of a circling army,
used terrain to bounce sound unpredictably.
Occasionally, a torch would flare on a hillside, then vanish.
Sometimes a silhouette could be glimpsed—just long enough to confirm there were men all around, never long enough for a clear shot.
In the officers' tent, arguments broke.
"They're trying to spook us," one insisted. "Stay calm."
Harwood listened.
He understood the tactic.
He also understood its effectiveness.
"Rotate the men," he ordered. "Don't let anyone sit too long imagining things. And under no circumstances will anyone lope off into the dark chasing shadows. That's what they want."
Despite his orders, nerves frayed.
A sepoy, startled by a flicker of movement, fired his musket into the night.
The shot exploded like a signal.
For a full minute, nothing happened.
Then, from one slope, a shouted taunt in accented English:
"Good shot, sahib! You kill the darkness very bravely!"
Laughter followed, invisible.
Some British soldiers flushed.
Others felt cold.
Later, when some tried to sleep, they heard whispers just beyond their tents:
in Telugu,
Kannada,
Tamil.
To the foreign ear, it all blended into a low, mocking susurrus.
To a few native ears, the words were clear:
"They do not know the river turns in their path tomorrow…"
"Their powder… damp in the next valley…"
"Our lion watches…"
The next morning, when a barrel of gunpowder—carelessly covered—failed to ignite properly in a test, a murmur went through the camp.
"Bad batch?" someone said.
"Or something more?" another whispered.
The land was not attacking them.
But their minds were under siege.
VIII. Traps of Earth and Iron
The western prong, pushing toward Bellary, suffered the first obvious terrain trap.
A narrow defile, marked on Company maps as a "shortcut" path earlier surveyed by hasty officers, promised quicker passage.
Guides assured them it was safe.
Those guides were Trinetra plants.
Bellary's men had spent days preparing:
loosening key boulders,
digging narrow trenches and covering them with brush,
placing tripwires of rope in subtle spots.
As the column entered, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
The first crack of rock was small.
A dislodged stone, tumbling down.
A few men looked up.
Then the hillside roared.
A controlled rockfall—not enough to bury the column completely, enough to:
crush several wagons,
block the rear,
panic the horses,
scatter the line.
Almost simultaneously, men in Mandala colours appeared on the ridges:
not in dense formation,
in small, agile bands.
They fired from above with their newly acquired rifles.
British return fire, shooting upward against half-seen shapes, was largely guessing.
"Form ranks!" an officer screamed, "Form—"
An iron ball from a hastily rolled-down boulder smashed into him mid-sentence.
Mandala warriors did not press in for a close-quarters slaughter.
They did not need to.
They:
crippled the column's movement,
took out key officers and artillery horses,
spiked some cannons in the confusion,
then melted away.
When dust settled hours later, the western prong was:
battered,
disorganised,
down several guns,
and, most critically, its confidence shattered.
Reports from that day spoke of "rebels appearing from the very rock."
The myth of the land itself turning against the Company grew.
IX. The Mysore–Travancore Squeeze
While Mandala forces harried and wounded, their allies applied pressure along less obvious seams.
In the west, the Mysore Wodeyar forces:
did not declare open war,
but suddenly "needed" to conduct large manoeuvres along borders that British and Nizam both watched.
Hyderabad's generals complained.
"Our cavalry cannot ride south in full strength while Mysore may strike here," one protested in council.
The Nizam—politically pinned between Company expectations and internal caution—opted to keep significant forces at home.
The northern prong remained understrength, moving slower, plagued by rumours that "if we go too far, our men will be pulled back to defend Hyderabad."
In the far south, near Travancore and Cochin, British garrisons reported:
unexpected "bandit" attacks on roads,
missing supply boats,
local rulers suddenly "too busy" to provide requested bullock-carts.
In truth, Travancore and Cochin had:
quietly instructed loyalists to tie up British logistics,
allowed Mandala couriers to move more freely along coastal paths,
used their small but experienced navies to:
shadow British coastal shipments,
occasionally "misdirect" lighter craft in fog.
None of these actions alone were decisive.
Together, they were like a series of cuts around a rope.
Slowly weakening its fibres.
X. The Decisive Field: Plains of Penna
Narasimha had predicted it.
After weeks of:
harrying,
delaying,
starving,
confusing,
the British Madras column, humiliated and fraying, would seek a decisive battle to restore honour.
They chose a stretch of open land near a bend of the Penna river—enough space for their formations, not so far from their supply fallback that they felt exposed.
Harwood argued for caution.
"By now he knows our composition," he warned. "Any ground we choose, he will have considered."
His superior, under pressure from Madras and Calcutta to "produce results," insisted.
"A decisive engagement is necessary," he said. "We cannot keep retreating from shadows. We will break his main force here, then roll up his scattered bands."
Harwood knew better.
But orders were orders.
Across the river, on higher ground, Narasimha watched through a spyglass.
At his side stood:
Venkanna,
Ayyappa,
Raja Pandiyan,
Avuku Raju,
Chamaraja Urs of Mysore (with a small contingent),
Sri with a rolled-up set of prepared signals.
Below, Mandala forces arrayed:
Infantry: about equal in number to the British, though more lightly armoured.
Cavalry: smaller but more nimble, used to uneven ground.
Artillery: fewer cannons, but with some French-made pieces of good quality.
Tiger Corps: hidden in flanking positions, half-invisible.
On their banners, the lion looked down calmly.
Narasimha lowered his spyglass.
"They're tired," he said. "Their lines are neat, but their faces are not."
Ayyappa grinned.
"Shall we… encourage their fatigue?" he asked.
Narasimha smiled, humourless.
"Gently," he said. "We still have to live here after they're gone."
He called his officers.
"This is where we end their illusion that the south is docile ground," he said. "Remember:
we don't fight for my banner alone,
we fight so that generations after us can decide whether to bow or stand without some clerk in London calculating the cost."
They nodded.
XI. The Battle of Lion's Mane
The first phase was… traditional.
Cannons roared.
Muskets flashed.
Lines advanced, withdrew, wheeled.
British discipline showed:
volleys fired in sequence,
officers shouting precise commands,
artillery pounding Mandala positions.
But the ground favoured Narasimha.
He had chosen:
slightly higher positions with shallow trenches dug in advance,
hidden ditches where British cavalry might charge,
subtle hummocks that broke line of sight.
Mandala musketeers—armed now with a mix of local and imported rifles—fired from prepared positions, retreating in stages, never allowing themselves to be pinned down.
British officers saw what they thought were "wavering rebels" and pressed harder.
"Forward!" one shouted. "They're breaking!"
From his vantage, Harwood saw something else.
"They're folding," he muttered, "not breaking."
He realised with a jolt: Narasimha's forces were:
bending back intentionally,
drawing the British inward,
making them overextend.
He spurred his horse toward his commander.
"We must beware flanks—" he began.
Too late.
From both sides, like jaws closing, the Tiger Corps erupted.
They had:
crept into position under cover of earlier skirmishes,
crawled through shallow ravines and scrub,
waited for the precise moment.
Their targets:
artillery crews,
supply wagons,
officers.
They struck with:
rifles at close range,
matchlocks,
curved blades when the distance closed.
As British gunners, startled, turned to respond, Mandala artillery began a precise, focused barrage:
not at the thickest infantry (where men could close ranks),
but at the joints—where lines connected,
at points where officers congregated.
Chamaraja Urs led a sudden cavalry charge against one British flank, not to annihilate, but to disrupt.
"We hit, we pull back, we hit again," he had told his men. "Death by a thousand stings."
On the Mandala right, Raja Pandiyan's Tamil fighters, accustomed to fluid guerrilla tactics, harried groups of sepoys whose loyalty to the Company… wavered when they realised they were shooting at people shouting prayers not unlike their own.
At Narasimha's signal, a reserve force surged forward with a war cry that rolled across the field:
"Dakshina Rajya! Simha Samrakshaka!"
From the British perspective, the battle went from manageable to chaotic in minutes.
Orders tangled.
Men tried to pivot to face new threats.
Lines lost cohesion.
Volleys lost their timing.
Some units fought bravely still, bayonets gleaming, but found themselves:
flanked,
cut off from supports,
their officers down.
In one swirling clash near the centre, Narasimha himself entered the fray.
He had planned to remain overseeing, but the press of battle—and a gap forming at a crucial point—pulled him in.
"Of course," Ayyappa muttered as he saw his king descending the ridge. "He's incapable of staying still when there's a gap to plug."
On the ground, amidst smoke and screams, Narasimha became what the British had begun to fear in stories:
A lion with a man's body and a storm's intent.
He moved through the melee:
sword cutting clean arcs,
eyes cold,
presence radiating something more than human.
Bullets came.
Some grazed him.
Flesh stung.
But whatever blessing had stretched his lifespan, whatever ichha-marana thread ran through his being, made him:
shrug off wounds that would have slowed another,
move with a ferocity that unnerved foes.
To British soldiers, it seemed as if this man simply refused to fall.
One terrified redcoat later told a comrade:
"I shot him. I swear I did. He just… turned, eyes glowing like something from their stories, and cut down three men as if they were wheat. I don't know what he is."
Narasimha, of course, bled.
He would feel it later.
He always did.
But in the moment—a flash of what his future Asura Battle Form would become flared.
Not full.
A shadow of it.
Enough that:
nearby Mandala warriors felt emboldened,
nearby British men felt something primal whisper, "Run."
The Penna river saw many dead that day.
But by sunset, one thing was clear:
The British centre had snapped.
Their flanks were falling back in disarray, fighting now to avoid rout rather than secure victory.
Harwood, trying to salvage order, looked around and realised:
They had been outthought before being outfought.
"This is not a native chief who got lucky," he thought, bitterly. "This is a commander with doctrine. An entire philosophy of war."
When he finally ordered a withdrawal to avoid complete annihilation, it was less a tactical retreat and more a desperate attempt to drag as many men out of the lion's teeth as possible.
XII. Collapse of the Counteroffensive
News from the other prongs compounded the disaster.
The western column, mauled at the defile and further harried by Bellary and Mysore coordination, had fallen back in tatters.
The northern Hyderabad-influenced prong, never fully committed, had stalled amid political uncertainty and Mandala raids on its supply lines, eventually retreating to "protect Hyderabad's core interests."
In Madras, when the scale of the failure reached the Governor, he reportedly smashed a porcelain lamp in rage.
"Three prongs," he shouted. "Three! And we have nothing to show for it but lost guns and rumours of a demigod lion!"
In Calcutta, the Governor-General's office received casualty numbers that made clerk hands tremble.
In London, directors stared at columns of figures.
dead,
wounded,
missing,
cannons lost,
territories "temporarily" out of effective control.
"It's worse than some of our European engagements," one muttered. "And this is… what? 'Southern disturbances'?"
The phrase "Madras Presidency" began appearing in internal correspondence bracketed with:
"in name only, with large interior regions effectively under rebel control."
No one said "lost" yet.
But the meaning was there.
In Paris, a diplomat smiled over a coffee.
"In their south," he wrote to a contact, "they have met their echo of our Napoleon. Only this one seems… less interested in marching on others' capitals and more in denying Englishmen the pleasure of taxing his peasants."
In an American port, a captain who had quietly sold arms to Setty lifted a newspaper—it mentioned "heavy British losses in Southern India."
He chuckled.
"Profitable chaos," he murmured. "May their lion live long enough for a few more shipments."
XIII. Madras Presidency Without Its Spine
On the ground, the consequences were stark.
In many interior districts, British authority became:
a theory,
a seal on old orders,
a fading memory.
In its place, the structures of the Dakshina Rajya settled more openly:
Mandala tax collectors, with lighter, clearly explained rates, replaced Company agents.
Village councils, previously overridden by British-appointed officials, found their voices restored under Mandala tolerance.
Temple trusts reclaimed lands and revenues previously siphoned to pay for far-away campaigns.
In Bellary, an old man sat at a tea stall, listening to travellers.
"So," he said, "does the Company still take carts of our grain for their ships in Madras?"
A younger man laughed.
"They tried last month," he said. "The cart never arrived. Our own men took it back under the Lion Banner. Now our children eat that grain."
In a Madurai street, a storyteller sang:
"From Kesarinagara the lion roared,
Across Penna's plain the red line tore,
Madras shook and London swore,
But the south now bows to him no more…"
In temple courtyards, priests adjusted their mental maps.
For the first time in living memory, when they prayed for "raja rakshana"—the protection of the king—they did not mean some distant monarch in London or Delhi.
They meant the man whose Lion Banner they'd seen raised with their own eyes.
XIV. Aftermath in Kesarinagara
In Kesarinagara's council hall, Narasimha sat with his elbow on the armrest, fingers massaging his temple.
On the table before him:
reports of the victory,
lists of dead and wounded,
preliminary sketches of new defence lines.
Sri was already outlining post-battle tasks.
"Now we need to:
secure captured guns,
integrate returning fighters into village economies,
prevent looting spirals,
and start planning for the British response to their failed response," she said.
Ayyappa flopped into a seat.
"Can we not have one week," he complained, "ONE week, where we just drink, eat, and boast? Like normal victors?"
Narasimha snorted.
"In one week," he said, "some someone in London will be sending angry letters about 'reorganisation'. We have to be ready for:
blockades,
diplomatic moves,
perhaps even attempts to stir internal rivals."
Venkanna watched him quietly.
"You fought today with more of your… inner fire showing," he said. "How do you feel now?"
Narasimha flexed his hand slowly.
"Like the battle is still in my blood," he admitted. "Like I could run all the way to Madras and kick their fort walls."
Then he sagged slightly.
"And also," he added, "like I might fall asleep mid-sentence."
He looked at the map, now showing a south where:
Madras clung to coastal enclaves and heavily fortified cities,
the interior—Rayalaseema, much of Andhra, Bellary, swathes of Tamil country—was shaded in mandala colours.
"Madras Presidency," he said softly, "has lost its spine. It can still bite. But it cannot stand in these lands as before."
Sri nodded.
"We've broken their illusion of inevitability," she said. "After this, every tax collector they send will walk with more fear. Every clerk will know that ink alone doesn't rule."
Narasimha's gaze drifted to the Lion Banner visible through the hall window.
"Remember," he murmured, half to himself, half to the gods listening, "this is not the end of our struggles. It is… the end of the beginning."
He thought of distant futures:
British trying new tactics,
new empires rising,
and further ahead, an age of:
Hydra cells,
Stark weapons,
alien invasions,
sorcerers tracing circles in the air.
When those storms arrived, what they had done here would be:
an old story,
a foundation,
a whisper in the stones.
But for now, in this year of 1823–24, in this battered, triumphant south, the truth was simple:
The British counteroffensive had failed.
The Madras Presidency had lost real control over vast southern territories.
And the Deathless Lion had shown the Empire that even in Kaliyuga, there were places where its reach could be broken.
✦ End of Chapter 42 – "British Counteroffensive & Defeat" ✦