𑁍 Chronicle Note: Time & Age 𑁍
Year: c. 1824–1825 CE
Era: Kaliyuga, post–British counteroffensive
Narasimha's Age: 24~25 years
Status so far:
Dakshina Rajya has shattered the major British counterattack.
The interior of Rayalaseema, Andhra, Bellary (Karnataka side), Tamil country is effectively under Mandala control.
Kesarinagara (Kurnool) stands as the capital of a hidden-but-rising realm.
Now the lion turns his eyes on the throne of Madras itself.
I. A Map with No Spine
In the Kesarinagara war hall, the map of the south looked different now.
Not because cartographers had redrawn rivers or mountains.
Because of the colours.
Vast swathes of interior south—Rayalaseema, Andhra, Bellary, Tamil regions—were shaded in Mandala's lion-marked hue.
Certain coastal enclaves, fortified ports, and the city of Madras remained marked with the Company's dull ink, clinging to the edges of the land like barnacles.
Narasimha stood over the map, arms folded.
Sri, Ayyappa, Venkanna, Raja Pandiyan, Avuku Raju, Mysore's envoy Chamaraja Urs, and representatives from Travancore, Cochin, and the coastal Merchant Alliance watched.
Sri tapped Madras with the end of her stylus.
"Here is the problem," she said. "As long as this remains:
British political centre,
military hub,
and port,
they will never accept that they have lost the south. They will keep:
sending columns,
appointing new governors,
dreaming of reconquest."
Raja Pandiyan's gaze darkened.
"Madras," he said, "is not just a city. It is a symbol. As long as their flag flies over Fort St. George, they can pretend this is all a temporary 'difficulty'."
Avuku Raju cracked his knuckles.
"Then we pull their symbol down," he said. "Throw it into the Bay of Bengal and see if it floats."
Ayyappa glanced at Narasimha.
"You know they'll call it madness if we try," he said. "Even our own chiefs will ask:
'Are we truly going to storm the white man's main nest?'"
Venkanna's voice was quiet.
"The question is not whether it is madness," he said. "The question is whether not doing it would be worse."
Narasimha's eyes never left the map.
He could see it as the British saw it:
Madras Presidency,
neat administrative boundaries,
Fort St. George is a proud headquarters.
He could also see it as a lion might:
a wounded predator that refused to admit it had been beaten,
still baring its teeth from a single rock.
"If we leave Madras untouched," he said slowly, "then every British officer, every clerk in London, will tell himself:
'We still hold the gate. One day, we will push back in.'
If we take it and force them to run their rule of India from farther away, we drive a spear through that dream."
Sri nodded.
"But we must do it clean," she said. "This city is full of:
our people,
Tamil families,
traders,
Black Town lanes.
We cannot afford to be conquerors who burn what they claim to protect."
The Travancore representative, Rama Varma Thampuran, smiled faintly.
"Good," he said. "Because we have ships, not fire for its own sake."
II. The Net Tightens Around Madras
The Mandala did not march blindly on Madras with one giant army.
That was the British way.
Narasimha's way was subtler.
Over months, the net closed.
Sea: The Shadowed Blockade
From the south and southwest, Travancore and Cochin quietly deployed their small but capable navies.
Ships that had previously escorted spice convoys now "incidentally" appeared along major sea lanes approaching Madras.
Mandala's own covert escorts—merchant ships from Setty's alliance, their holds now carrying cannon—added unseen teeth.
They did not announce a blockade.
They:
"lost" British supply ships in fog,
"misdirected" others to minor ports where Mandala-aligned dockhands made cargo disappear,
let rumours spread among sailors that docking in Madras was risking anchor and life.
Land: Choked Arteries
On the land side:
Tamil rebels around Chengalpattu and Kanchipuram harassed roads.
Trinetra agents made sure caravan routes "accidentally" bypassed Madras in favour of rising Mandala markets.
Key bridges fell in "unfortunate" monsoon incidents.
For Madras civilians, life grew more uncertain.
Prices of imported goods rose.
Supplies to the Fort became more guarded, more precious.
Inside Madras: The Quiet Fuse
In Black Town and other native quarters, Mandala sympathisers spread:
songs of the Lion Banner,
stories of Rayalaseema victories,
quiet instructions:
"When the day comes, close your doors. Don't throw stones at either side. But when you see the lion flag, know your chance for different masters has come."
Trinetra eyes watched every British move:
fort rotations,
powder stocks,
naval patterns.
Narasimha did not want a massacre in Madras.
He wanted:
the Fort,
the authority it represented,
and the British were compelled to leave rather than die to the last man.
III. In the Fort: An Empire in Denial
In Fort St. George, the heart of British Madras, heat and tension mixed.
The Governor—older, brittle after the recent campaign disasters—paced.
Harwood stood opposite him, a stack of reports in hand.
"So now," the Governor said, voice bitter, "not only have we lost interior districts, we cannot even be sure our ships will arrive on schedule? What kind of farce is this?"
Harwood's expression was grim.
"Not farce," he said. "Enemy strategy. Dakshina Rajya has:
cut our inland communications,
harassed our depots,
and now, with help from these blasted coastal allies, threatens our maritime lifeline too."
He laid out the facts.
"Our choices are narrowing:
hold Madras at all costs and hope Calcutta and London send overwhelming naval and land reinforcements,
or
recognise that we are outmanoeuvred in this theatre and… negotiate from the least humiliating position possible."
"Negotiate?" the Governor snarled. "With a native upstart who calls himself 'King of the South'?"
Harwood looked toward the sea, visible through the window.
The horizon was hazy.
"We are exhausted," he said. "Our regiments depleted, our sepoys restive, our supply lines strangled. The lion has its claws at our throat. If we keep pretending otherwise, we may lose more than just the South."
He did not add:
"And I would prefer not to be here when the fort finally falls."
The Governor, like many imperial men before him, clung to pride.
But even he read the writing on the wall.
When a powder magazine mishap—suspected sabotage—rocked a corner of the fort, when several key native suppliers abruptly "could not guarantee their safety" bringing grain into Madras, when Black Town whispered of "changes coming"—
even he had to admit it.
"We will not be driven out like bandits," he said finally. "If we must leave, it will be under terms, not on the point of their spears."
Harwood inclined his head.
"Then, sir," he said, "we must be prepared for both:
negotiations,
and the possibility that they will attack anyway to make a point."
He thought of Narasimha.
If he were the lion, he knew, he would do both:
squeeze until the enemy sued for peace,
Then take just enough by force to make the new order unarguable.
IV. The Day the Lion Reached the Sea
When Kesarinagara finally moved openly against Madras, it was like a coiled spring releasing.
Mandala units advanced from multiple directions, but not in the old manner of armies.
From the north-west: Rayalaseema and Andhra contingents moved down, linking with Tamil rebels already familiar with the terrain.
From the west, select Bellary fighters and Mysore detachments appeared along outer routes, peeling away any Company attempts to reinforce from inland.
From the south, smaller Mandala-linked bands rose in synchrony, disrupting communications.
But the decisive move came from the sea.
On a dawn thick with mist, ships gathered beyond visible range.
Some flew the flags of Travancore and Cochin.
Some bore the innocuous banners of merchants.
All carried:
Mandala-trained marines,
cannons covered,
Trinetra agents are prepared to strike.
Signal fires on distant hills flashed pre-arranged codes:
"Ships in position. Coastal winds are favourable."
In Kesarinagara, Narasimha received the final confirmation.
"It's time," he said.
Sri nodded.
"The longer we wait," she said, "the higher the chance of some foreign fleet showing up in their support. Better to seize the momentum while Calcutta and London are still… debating."
V. The Fall of Fort St. George
The attack on Madras was not a mad rush.
It was a choreographed storm.
Outer Shock
In the pre-dawn gloom, Mandala allied ships moved in closer, their silhouettes merging with the usual harbour traffic until they were almost at firing distance.
On land, Mandala land forces appeared at the edge of the city—visible, but holding formation.
Inside Black Town, shutters closed.
The city held its breath.
Then, from the harbour, a whistle shrieked.
Cannon roared—not from British batteries, but from Mandala-linked ships that had pivoted with startling speed.
Their first shots:
targeted certain harbour defences,
smashed at redoubts shielded by older British planning,
Cut anchor chains on key British ships, sending them drifting, useless.
British gunners scrambled to respond.
They were not entirely unprepared.
But their expectation had been of:
pirates,
small-scale raids,
not a coordinated naval strike with allied princely fleets.
Inner Breach
As the harbour erupted, land-side Mandala forces moved.
Not in a straight siege line.
They:
advanced in waves,
seized outer earthworks,
blocked major roads leading away from the Fort.
Critical to the plan was inside help.
Trinetra agents within Madras—some serving as labourers, some as minor clerks—had long prepared:
knowledge of postern gates,
guard rotation laxity,
powder storage locations.
At the right moment, a small explosion tore through a secondary gate structure—not catastrophic, but enough to send defenders scrambling.
In that confusion, a Mandala assault party hit the weakest point.
Narasimha was not physically first through the breach.
But he entered early enough that his presence could not be denied.
He refused to sit in Kesarinagara while others risked themselves at the empire's throat.
"In front of their fort walls?" Sri had asked, exasperated, when he'd insisted on going.
"I'm their king," he'd said. "I refuse to be only a signer of decrees. Besides, if I don't see their precious Fort fall with my own eyes after all this trouble, I'll sulk for a decade."
Now, amid gunfire and shouted commands, he strode beneath the shadow of Fort St. George's battered walls.
British troops fought.
Not all of them wanted to die for Madras, but the training held.
Volley after volley cracked.
Mandala men fell.
Narasimha felt each loss like a stone in his chest.
"We push," he ordered. "But no burning of civilian streets. No looting. Any man caught doing it will wish the British bullets had found him first."
Tiger Corps units took specific tasks:
silencing key cannon positions,
reaching powder magazines before a desperate officer could try to blow the fort rather than surrender it,
ensuring that white flags—if raised—were respected.
White Flag on the Eastern Wall
By midday, the situation inside the fort was clear.
Harbour guns compromised.
Walls breached.
Key buildings damaged.
Morale fraying.
The Governor, exhausted, blood on his sleeve from a grazing wound, looked at Harwood.
"This is… untenable," he admitted. "If we fight to the last, we lose everything. Men, materiel, Madras. If we yield, perhaps we salvage… something."
Harwood, who'd long since abandoned illusions, nodded.
"We sue for terms," he said. "We ask for:
safe passage to Calcutta for remaining troops and officials,
guarantees for civilians in the city,
time to evacuate British families.
They will agree. They want us gone more than they want us dead."
A white flag rose on the eastern bastion.
A roar went up from Mandala lines.
But Narasimha raised his hand sharply.
"Hold," he commanded. "They've yielded. We take the fort as rulers, not raiders."
Inside, an envoy—Harwood himself—was sent out under the white flag.
He met Narasimha between lines, under the half-shattered shadow of a gate arch.
They regarded each other.
They had, in a way, been playing against each other for years without meeting face-to-face.
"So," Harwood said, in careful, clipped English, "the lion has reached the sea."
Narasimha replied in the same tongue—accented, but firm.
"The Empire has reached its limit," he said.
They negotiated.
Terms that would travel all the way to London.
All British troops in Madras Presidency would be granted safe passage to Calcutta or other northern bases—by sea, under Mandala supervision.
All Company officials would leave their posts in the southern territories within a strictly defined time.
Fort St. George, its armoury, and records would be surrendered intact.
In return:
Dakshina Rajya would guarantee no harm to British civilians who chose to depart peacefully.
British trade factors could, in the future, apply for limited commercial privileges under Dakshina law, not as rulers.
Harwood, knowing the balance of power, also pressed for something else.
"A formal… truce period," he said, choosing his words. "However you phrase it. A time in which neither side will initiate hostilities. Ten years."
Narasimha understood at once.
They needed breathing room.
So did he.
"Ten years," he said. "Of non-interference by your Company in the internal affairs of the South. No covert support to our enemies. No troop landings on our coasts. No use of Hyderabad as your attack arm."
Harwood didn't flinch at the Hyderabad clause.
He'd expected it.
"We cannot control every whisper," he said. "But I can assure you that any large-scale violation of such a pact will be… noticed."
"Good," Narasimha said. "And if we violate it, you will come again with your ships and guns. Fair, no?"
Harwood almost smiled.
"In a way," he said. "Yes."
They both knew treaties could be broken.
But history often pivoted on what men intended in the moment, not just what they later undid.
The agreement was inked later.
For now, there was one final, visible act.
The Lion Over the Fort
As British troops filed out in controlled columns days later—watched by Mandala warriors, by Tamil townsfolk, by clerks who'd quietly helped the Lion—the last British flag atop Fort St. George was lowered.
In its place, under a sky wide with gulls, the Lion Banner climbed.
Its mandala ring shimmered against the whitewashed fort walls.
On the rampart, Narasimha stood, wind ruffling his angavastram.
From below, a murmur rose.
"This fort," he said, to those close enough to hear, "has seen our people flogged, our grain weighed, our lands auctioned. Today, it sees something else.
Not our revenge.
Our return."
He touched the stone.
"From this day," he murmured, "there will be no foreign capital claiming to rule our south from these shores."
VI. Treaty of Kesarinagara
The formal writing of the treaty took place weeks later in Kesarinagara, in a hall where once only Mandala chiefs gathered.
Now, a British delegation sat there as… supplicants? Partners? Opponents forced into politeness?
A bit of all.
The document that emerged—later known as the Treaty of Kesarinagara—had key points:
Recognition (implicit, not explicit) of Dakshina Rajya's de facto control over territories comprising:
Rayalaseema,
Andhra interior,
much of the Tamil country,
Bellary and adjacent Karnataka zones,
aligned Kerala polities (Travancore, Cochin) in a confederated arrangement.
British agreement to:
Withdraw all administrative and military presence from these regions,
refrain from:
stationing troops,
building fortifications,
imposing taxation,
for ten years.
British permission to:
maintain limited trading posts—unfortified, under Dakshina inspection—in certain coastal spots,
send merchants, but not armies.
A clause explicitly stating:
"No British cantonment shall be established in the dominions of the Nizam of Hyderabad with the stated or unstated aim of threatening the Confederated Southern Realm."
(This was legal poetry; everyone knew why it was there.)
Prisoner exchange mechanisms,
guarantees for civilian safety.
Hyderabad and Goa remained outside this formal dominion.
Hyderabad by choice.
Goa because Narasimha had no desire—yet—to provoke the Portuguese while his energies had to be elsewhere.
"We leave Goa alone," he told Sri once, in private. "I do not need another foreign empire breathing fire on my ports. Let them keep their churches and trade. For now."
Sri smirked.
"You sound like a man saving some arguments for later years," she said.
"I intend to live a long time," he replied dryly. "I can schedule some empires for… future attention."
When the Treaty was sealed, wax pressed, and copies prepared for London, Calcutta, and Kesarinagara's own archives, a quiet understanding settled:
For ten years, at least, the British would not be the primary storm in the south.
Other storms would come.
But for now, the lion had cleared his immediate horizon.
VII. Declaration of the Confederated Southern Kingdom
With Madras fallen and the treaty ink still drying, the time had come to name what, until now, had been growing half in shadow.
The earlier secret coronation in Nallamala and the public coronation in Kesarinagara had affirmed Narasimha as Dakshina Samrakshaka Raja.
Now, the shape of his realm needed clearer lines.
In Kesarinagara's great Sabha Mandapa, representatives gathered:
Rayalaseema and Andhra chieftains,
Ballari lords,
Tamil Nadu conspirators and temple trust heads,
Wodeyar envoys from Mysore,
rulers of Travancore and Cochin,
coastal merchant guild heads,
tribal leaders from Nallamala, Srisailam, Western Ghats.
A large map hung on one wall—hand-painted, detailing:
territories aligned under Mandala,
princely states in confederation,
Hyderabad and Goa are marked in different shading.
Narasimha took the centre, not on a throne, but on a raised platform.
"We have fought as a Mandala," he began, voice steady. "Circle of oaths. We have bled together. We have watched Madras fall, and the lion rise above its walls.
Now the world asks:
'What are you? A band of rebels? A temporary storm? Or something that will outlast the next monsoon?'
We must answer clearly.
But in answering, we must remember: this land is not a single piece of cloth. It is a quilt stitched from:
Rayalaseema's dry resilience,
Andhra's river-fed fields,
Tamilakam's temples and learning,
Karnataka's rocky strength,
Kerala's lush coasts and hills.
If I stand here and say, 'All of you are mine,' I become the very thing I fought—the kind of king who thinks unity means flattening differences."
He gestured to the map.
"Instead, I propose this:
We declare this:
Dakshina Samyukta Rajyam – the Confederated Southern Kingdom.
A realm of:
Rayalaseema,
Andhra,
Tamil Nadu,
Karnataka's aligned regions,
Kerala's kingdoms in pact,
bound together under:
One Lion Banner,
one King-Protector,
but with internal councils, languages, and customs respected.
We coordinate:
defence,
foreign policy,
great works of infrastructure,
larger laws of justice.
Within that, each region retains its own sabhas, its own festivals, its own flavour."
The representative from Travancore spoke.
"If you try to make us all one colour," he said, "we will resist you as we resisted others. But a confederation… where our Rajya stands under your protective umbrella without being swallowed… that, we can accept."
Mysore's envoy added,
"Wodeyar will not be your vassal," he said. "But we will be your ally in this Confederated Kingdom. Our lions and yours need not argue as long as our people are safe."
From Tamil lands, Raja Pandiyan grinned.
"As long as you do not tell us to stop singing in our own tongue," he said, "we'll call your confederation by whatever fine Sanskrit name you want."
Laughter rippled.
Narasimha smiled.
"Then it is agreed?" he asked. "That from this day, we are not merely a Mandala of rebels, but the Confederated Southern Kingdom of Dakshina Rajya?"
Hands rose.
Voices answered.
"Yes."
So the South, for the first time in centuries, had:
a shared name,
a shared King-Protector,
and a confederated structure that promised both unity and respect.
Hyderabad was a blank space beyond.
Goa, a foreign enclave at the western edge.
Between them, a lion-shaped realm.
VIII. Dawn of the Golden Years
With war temporarily pushed back, the Confederated Kingdom entered what later generations would call its first golden age.
Narasimha discovered that peace, too, was a battlefield—only the weapons were:
quills,
council debates,
engineering diagrams.
Government: The Twelve Ministries
Under guidance from Sri, Venkanna, and others, the realm formalised its administration.
At the top:
King-Protector (Dakshina Samrakshaka Raja) – Narasimha.
Mahamantri – Sri (whether officially titled or not, everyone knew).
Below them, a Council of Twelve Ministries emerged:
Dharma & Justice – codifying laws blending shastra, custom, and practical mercy.
Finance & Treasury – replacing exploitative tax systems with transparent, region-adjusted levies.
Army & Defence – integrating:
Rayalaseema fighters,
Mysore warriors,
Tamil contingents,
Kerala militias,
into a coherent structure with:
Royal Guard (108 elites),
Lion Legion,
Elephant and Cavalry Commands.
Intelligence & Trinetra Affairs – turning the web into a formal Rahasya Mandal, with layers of watchers and analysts.
Technology & Crafts – encouraging metalwork, proto-industrial workshops, and engineering.
Mysticism & Esoteric Affairs – liaising with siddhars, temple guardians, occult specialists.
Agriculture & Waterworks – planning irrigation, new wells, reservoir systems.
Foreign Affairs – handling all dealings with the British, other European powers, and northern Indian polities.
Infrastructure & Roads – linking ports, capital, temple towns, forts.
Education & Learning – founding gurukuls and modern schools, libraries.
Health & Healing – promoting native medicinal knowledge, structured hospitals.
Trade & Guilds – strengthening the Merchant Alliance, fair markets, regulating exploitation.
Meetings were… lively.
"Why," Narasimha groaned one evening, "does my golden age involve so many arguments over grain measurements and road tolls? When I was fighting British columns, life was simpler. Kill or be killed. Now it's: 'Raja, should we standardise weights in Tirunelveli to match Bellary?'"
Sri smirked.
"You wanted to protect people," she said. "Sometimes the best shield is a properly audited ledger."
Economy & Infrastructure
With taxes fairer, farmers:
kept more of their grain,
invested in better tools.
Trade flourished as:
Caravan routes became safer under unified protection,
port duties were consistent,
Corruption had new enemies in both the courts and Trinetra's shadows.
The Polavaram concept—linking rivers, taming floods, feeding fields—moved from the scribbling board to early surveys.
Engineers, inspired by both Indian ingenuity and glimpses of European tech via captured machines, started sketching:
improved water wheels,
proto-steam experiments in workshop corners,
The beginnings of a proto-steampunk southern aesthetic.
Roads were widened between:
Kesarinagara and Bellary,
Kesarinagara and Madurai,
ports and interior.
Where the British had planned railways only for their own extraction, Narasimha's planners thought in terms of:
"How do we move grain quickly in times of drought?"
Education & Culture
In temple towns and growing cities, new centres emerged where:
Vedas and shastras were taught alongside:
arithmetic,
geography,
practical sciences,
multiple languages.
Children learned:
Telugu, Tamil, Kannada, Malayalam,
and enough English to negotiate, if needed.
Poets sang of:
The Lion Banner,
The fall of Madras,
The Confederation of the South,
but also of:
love,
grief,
harvests,
because life was more than war.
For the first time in a long time, the people tasted something that might be called:
stability.
The gods watched.
Lakshmi smiled.
"This," she said, "is why we gave him more years than most. So he could see not just war, but what comes after."
IX. Finally, the Marriage of the Lion and the River
In all this noise of treaties and councils, one matter kept getting pushed down Sri's urgent list, then mysteriously resurfaced, then pushed again.
Narasimha's marriage to Kaveri.
The daughter of the Mysore Wodeyar line.
The woman whose face had lingered in his mind through:
bullet wounds,
wars,
sleepless councils.
Kaveri, whose beauty carried the calm strength of southern rivers and whose gaze had, in their rare meetings, seen straight through his kingly armour to the man who hated paperwork and cried at night over names on casualty lists.
One late evening, Sri cornered him in the council room.
"You've delayed long enough," she said, arms folded. "The British have been kicked out. The treaty is signed. Our treasury is not on fire. The people whisper:
'Our king can defeat Madras, but he cannot manage his own wedding?'
We are fixing this."
Narasimha groaned.
"Why is everyone in this kingdom obsessed with my personal life?" he protested. "I just fought an empire."
"Exactly," Sri said. "You've done enough for politics. Now do something for yourself—and, incidentally, for the stability of our alliance with Mysore."
Ayyappa appeared in the doorway, grinning.
"Also," he added, "if you don't marry soon, half the mothers from Rayalaseema to Travancore will descend on Kesarinagara with proposals, and you'll find yourself in a different kind of war."
That, Narasimha truly feared.
"Fine," he said. "Send the message. Tell Wodeyar we're ready to proceed. But keep it… moderate."
Sri's look was pure disbelief.
"Moderate?" she echoed. "You're the king of a confederated southern realm who just threw the British out of Madras. There is nothing moderate about your life anymore."
X. The Wedding That Belonged to the South
The marriage was held not in some distant palace, but in Kesarinagara, under an open sky, where the people could see that their king's joy was not hidden behind walls.
Mysore's procession arrived first:
musicians,
horsemen,
elephants with embroidered caparisons,
noblemen and women in silks of deep blues and gold.
At their centre, in a palanquin trimmed with jasmine, came Kaveri.
When she stepped down, Kesarinagara hushed.
Her saree flowed like a river at sunset—rich green and gold, with subtle lion motifs along the border.
Her eyes were sharp, amused, taking in:
the carved pillars,
The Lion Banner overhead,
the crowd quieted as she moved.
Narasimha, for once dressed like a proper groom—cream and maroon silk, jewellery he'd protested but ultimately accepted—felt a strange nervousness.
He had faced:
British muskets,
cannon fire,
death-blessing visions.
But the sight of Kaveri walking toward the mandapam made his heart hammer more than any battlefield.
Under a flower-draped canopy, priests had arranged:
sacred fire,
garlands,
vessels of river water—Tungabhadra, Krishna, Kaveri herself.
The rites drew from:
Telugu customs,
Kannada traditions,
Tamil nuptial chants,
in a deliberate blending of the South.
"I must warn you," Kaveri murmured as they sat side by side, voices hidden by the priest's louder mantras. "I have no intention of being a silent queen in a corner. If you think you can frown and keep me away from councils, you've misjudged me more than the British misjudged your wars."
Narasimha's lips twitched.
"I would be a fool to marry the daughter of Wodeyar and expect silence," he whispered back. "Just… when you scold me, do it in private. I have an image to maintain."
She smiled, eyes softening.
"You carry too much on those shoulders," she said. "Let me share some. That is the point, Raja."
As the kanyadaanam and other rites proceeded, as he tied the mangalsutra around her neck, as they exchanged garlands under flower showers, the people watched.
They saw not:
an aloof monarch,
a distant alliance.
They saw:
a man who had bled for them,
a woman whose kingdom had once been under British pressure, now choosing to stand at his side freely.
In the crowd, old women sniffled.
"You see?" one said. "Our lion is finally getting a lioness. Good. Enough of his bachelor foolishness."
Children tried to imitate the priests, sprinkling water on each other and giggling.
Musicians from:
Mysore,
Rayalaseema,
Tamil lands
took turns, blending ragas, creating a new sound that felt like the Confederated Kingdom itself.
At the height of the ceremony, when the couple circled the fire, something subtle happened.
The air shimmered.
For one instant—just one—time seemed to slow.
XI. The Gods Watch a Wedding
In the unseen heights, the Trimurti and Tridevi leaned closer.
Lakshmi's eyes shone.
"At last," she said. "A marriage for him that is not an accident, not something cut short, not a tragedy."
Parvati smiled broadly.
"He has carried spears, swords, crowns, blessings heavier than most souls ever touch," she said. "Let him carry her now as well—and let her carry him."
Saraswati added,
"And with their union, ideas will flow between Mysore and Kesarinagara, between different schools of thought. The children of such a match—be they literal or in the form of institutions-be sharp."
Vishnu cleared his throat.
Lakshmi looked sideways at him.
"Swami," she said sweetly, "you are not going to pretend you didn't whisper something earlier about giving him a love life more like Krishna's, but without tragedies, are you?"
Vishnu coughed.
"Well," he said, "I might have… suggested a few small boons about charisma and connections and—"
Lakshmi's foot found his under the divine assembly.
He winced.
"Behave," she said. "We are not going to have him running around starting a hundred romances. One is enough."
Maheshwara chuckled.
"Besides," he said, "he barely handles one kingdom's worth of paperwork. Imagine him managing a harem."
Brahma, who had been furiously writing, smiled.
"In my scrolls," he said, "this marriage marks the beginning of his realm's settling. The storms of conquest ease. The storms of governance and cosmic entanglements… that's later."
Below, oblivious to divine teasing, Narasimha and Kaveri completed their seventh step.
With each, subtle threads wrapped around them:
of dharma,
of shared duty,
of joy,
of the promise that when future Marvel-era storms battered the world, there would be a southern anchor whose roots began here.
XII. A Kingdom Exhales
That night, Kesarinagara glowed.
Oil lamps lined the streets.
Fireworks—simple ones, not like the roaring future Stark-tech storms—sparkled in the sky.
Villagers who'd never seen a king up close danced in lanes.
Merchants quietly calculated how many sweets had been sold and decided they liked this golden age.
In a quieter courtyard, away from the main festivities, Narasimha finally found a moment alone with Kaveri.
He sat on a swing, shoulders slumped in unguarded exhaustion, wedding finery slightly crooked.
"This," he said, "was more terrifying than Madras."
Kaveri laughed.
"Your hands were shaking," she said. "Tying a simple thread."
"I've tied sword hilts with less fear," he admitted. "If I drop my sword, I pick it up. If I drop that thread, I earn your mother's eternal wrath."
She slid onto the swing beside him, shoulder touching his.
"Tomorrow," she said, "they will line up with petitions:
border disputes,
trade requests,
temple questions.
Next week, the British will send more letters:
about trade permissions,
about interpretations of the treaty.
The golden age you've started?"
She tapped his chest.
"It will demand more work than any war."
He sighed theatrically.
"Why does every good thing in my life come with increased paperwork?" he lamented. "King. Confederated realm. Treaty. Wife."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?" she said. "So I am paperwork?"
He backtracked instantly.
"No, no, you're… you're like… a royal seal," he said desperately. "The most important one. Without which all the other documents look incomplete."
She laughed, bright and unoffended.
"Smooth recovery," she allowed. "You might yet survive this marriage."
He leaned his head back, looking at the stars.
"For ten years," he said softly, "we have had a promise from our enemies to leave us be. Ten years to:
build,
strengthen,
prepare.
After that…"
He trailed off.
Kaveri followed his gaze.
"After that," she said, "the world will change again. Trains, telegraphs, telegraphs that ride the sky, machines that fly, weapons we cannot imagine. You know this; I see it in your eyes sometimes when you stare too long at the horizon."
He looked at her, startled.
"How—"
"I am not blind," she said. "You carry… something. Like a man who hears a drumbeat others do not, distant but approaching."
She took his hand.
"Use these ten years well," she said. "Not alone. With me. With our councils. With a realm that, for now, believes in its lion."
He squeezed back.
"I will try," he said.
He meant:
I will build schools that can teach children who will one day meet mutants and machines.
I will fortify temples that will stand when alien ships pass overhead.
I will shape an intelligence network that can survive Hydra, Kingsman, S.H.I.E.L.D., and whatever else emerges.
But aloud, he only added, with a crooked smile,
"And if the gods send more empires, more heroes in capes, more cosmic nonsense… I'll make sure they at least have to ask permission before stomping all over our fields."
Kaveri chuckled.
"That," she said, "sounds exactly like something a King-Protector of the South would say."
XIII. The Southern Kingdom Is Born
So it was that in these years:
With the British pushed out of Madras Presidency,
with their remnants retreating to Calcutta and beyond,
With Hyderabad isolated by choice,
With Goa consciously left for another day,
With the Treaty of Kesarinagara shaping a decade of uneasy peace,
with Rayalaseema, Andhra, Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, Kerala bound in a confederated embrace,
with a lion-banner flying over forts that once bore foreign flags,
and with a king who did not want power but bore it anyway, now sharing his life with a queen from Mysore—
The Southern Kingdom truly began.
Not as a fantasy of endless glory.
As:
a living, sweating, arguing, building, singing, weeping realm,
half ancient, half proto-modern,
watched over by gods who had once nearly made this soul a Manu and now watched it grow into something different.
In London, they revised their maps reluctantly.
In Calcutta, they grumbled about "temporary arrangements".
In Kesarinagara, children grew up thinking:
"Of course, the south has its own king. Of course, the British are in the north. That is just how life is."
They did not know how fragile, how hard-won this "of course" was.
But their ignorance was the point.
They would need that normality when, centuries later, portals opened in New York skies, when gods walked as men and men flew as gods, when mutants and metahumans and marvels filled the world.
For now, in the 1820s, in a city once called Kurnool and now proudly known as Kesarinagara, a lion-king and his river-queen sat under the stars of a realm that had, at last, been born.
The Deathless Lion smiled, weary and content.
The golden age had begun.
The next storms waited beyond the horizon.
✦ End of Chapter 43 – "The Southern Kingdom Is Born" ✦