✦Year: 1825 CE
(After The Southern Kingdom Is Born)
I. London – Tea, Ink, and Wounded Pride
The fog over London that morning was no thicker than usual, but the mood in Leadenhall Street, headquarters of the East India Company, most certainly was.
The Board Room of the Court of Directors was heavy with polished wood, oiled paintings of past victories, and the faint smell of stale cigar smoke. Maps of India lined the walls, great blotches of red marching across the subcontinent.
Except in the south.
There, a sizeable patch had recently been… re-coloured in a more neutral tone by the cartographers. Not British red. Not yet recognised as a foreign sovereign either. Just — awkwardly — not ours.
On the central table lay the latest dispatch from Calcutta.
Most directors had already read it.
None enjoyed looking at it again.
At the head of the table sat Sir Edmund Carrington, senior director, face pale with fury barely contained.
"This," he said, tapping the parchment with one knuckle, "is nothing short of a humiliation."
No one contradicted him.
The document was clear:
Madras completely evacuated.
Fort St. George surrendered.
British troops withdrawn under terms.
A ten-year non-interference treaty signed with the so-called Dakshina Samyukta Rajyam, the Confederated Southern Kingdom centered at Kesarinagara.
"An army of natives," Carrington continued, voice tightening, "has taken one of our Presidencies and forced us into treaty… as if we were equals. And our own Governor-General has put his seal on it."
One of the younger directors, a man who had risen quickly through the ranks of trade and lobbying, cleared his throat.
"You must acknowledge, Sir Edmund," he said cautiously, "that our position in the south had grown… precarious. The losses in the counteroffensive, the collapse of supply—"
Carrington slammed his palm on the table.
"I do not require a recital of failures!" he snapped. "I require a plan to reverse them."
An older director, hair silver and thin, spoke with measured tone.
"And with what, Sir Edmund?" he asked. "We are not what we were forty years ago. The Maratha campaigns drained men and rupees. We have just finished putting down what was left of that confederacy. To divert regiments from the Deccan now is to invite the embers to flare again."
Another voice added, dry and weary,
"And London is… not eager."
Silence fell at those words.
Everyone in that room understood: the Company still held immense influence, but the Crown's mood mattered more than ever.
A clerk entered with a sealed packet bearing the royal crest.
All eyes followed as the seal was broken and the letter unfolded.
The message from St. James's Palace was brief, the tone firm without being insulting.
The King's advisors wrote:
Britain was still recovering from the Napoleonic Wars.
The Crown's focus was on Europe, internal stability, and debt.
The East India Company had been granted licence to administer and trade, not to entangle the kingdom in another full-scale war across oceans just to avenge wounded pride.
Unofficially, the sentiment was clear:
"You lost the south? Live with it for now.
Do not drag us into another costly venture."
Carrington read it twice.
His jaw clenched.
"So His Majesty prefers to let this… 'Lion King' in the south preen over our former fort?" he said bitterly.
One of the shrewder directors, eyes hooded, spoke quietly.
"His Majesty," he said, "does not wish to appear as the mere cudgel of a trading company again. Public sentiment after the wars is… sensitive. Parliament watches our expenditures closely. A grand campaign to retake one Presidency — especially after a formal treaty — would be politically poisonous."
The word hung there: treaty.
Another director, a legal mind, adjusted his spectacles.
"There is also the matter of contracts," he said. "If we sign an agreement, witnessed and sealed, and then violate it openly within a decade — what message does that send to:
other Indian princes,
Arab merchants,
African ports,
even our own investors?
A Company whose word means nothing will find it harder to secure loans and alliances."
He looked around.
"You may regain Madras by force one day," he said. "But you may lose trust forever. And in this new century, gentlemen, trust is currency."
Someone muttered, "And so is cotton, which we now lose access to from parts of the south, thanks to this 'Confederated Kingdom'."
The conversation spiralled.
Some voices roared for immediate retaliation:
"We shift regiments from Bengal!"
"We arm Hyderabad and strike from the north!"
"We blockade their ports until they starve!"
Others countered:
"Shift regiments from Bengal and risk unrest with the Sikhs?"
"Arm Hyderabad and risk making the Nizam too powerful?"
"Blockade their ports and invite French or others to sneak in and claim moral high ground?"
The room became a storm.
At last, the oldest director there, who had survived more than one Indian campaign and seen empires rise and die, raised his hand.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice dry as paper, "you speak as if this were still 1757. It is not.
We have just spent decades fighting Napoleon. The treasury is not bottomless. British mothers are tired of burying sons for lands they do not understand.
You want vengeance." He pointed to the south on the map. "What you have is a treaty — a breathing space. Use it.
Study them.
Trade with them if profitable.
Undermine them, perhaps, in subtler ways.
But a direct war with a consolidated south, right now? Without Parliament's backing? Without the Crown's enthusiasm?
You would be marching not just soldiers, but the Company itself, into the grave."
The room stilled.
Carrington stared at the map as if sheer hatred could repaint it.
At last he growled,
"Very well. Ten years. We watch. We regroup. We prepare.
But let it be written in this Board's private record:
The day may yet come when the Lion Banner is torn down, and our flag flies again over that fort."
He did not say it aloud, but a thought coiled in the room:
If we cannot break them now with force, we will learn to break them later with trade, politics, and time.
II. Calcutta – The Governor's Burden
In Calcutta, the seat of the Governor-General, the reaction had been more immediate — less about imperial philosophy, more about the practical disaster.
The Governor-General, a man with a lined face and exhausted eyes, sat behind his desk reading the Treaty of Kesarinagara for the tenth time.
Harwood stood before him, newly returned from the south, his uniform bearing scars and sun.
"So," the Governor-General said slowly, "you are telling me there was truly no other course."
Harwood's reply was flat.
"Excellency," he said, "by the time we reached the formal siege of Madras, our position was this:
our regiments were understrength and exhausted,
supply lines strained to breaking,
morale lower than I have ever seen,
and the rebel —" he caught himself, "— the Southern King had:
control of the interior,
support from Mysore, Travancore, Cochin,
and the sympathy of half the native population in the Presidency.
To fight to the last man in Fort St. George would have been heroism. Or suicide. Depending on which side of the ledger you look at."
The Governor drummed his fingers.
"The Company will not see it that way," he said.
Harwood's gaze drifted to a window looking out over the Hooghly, ships bobbing.
"The Company can see it as they like," he said, tired. "The land sees facts:
British troops marched south.
They bled.
They fell back.
Madras fell.
The lion raised his banner.
If we had thrown away more men just to delay the inevitable, we would be writing not a treaty, but an obituary for an army."
The Governor's eyes narrowed.
"How dangerous is he?" he asked quietly. "This Narasimha Reddy. Is he a mere lucky provincial, or something more?"
Harwood remembered:
the battles where their formations shattered like glass against water,
the way the terrain seemed to obey him,
his face on the field — young, fierce, utterly in control,
the sense that this was not a man improvising, but a man executing a design years in the making.
"He is… systematic," Harwood said. "He plans in decades, not weeks. He has turned:
trade into weapon,
spies into skeleton,
alliances into armour.
He is not trying to replace us as a looter.
He is trying to build."
The Governor regarded him sharply.
"And does that frighten you?" he asked.
Harwood thought a moment.
"Yes," he said simply. "Because a plunderer is predictable. A builder who also knows how to wage war? That is a rarer, more enduring enemy."
He hesitated.
"Excellency," he added, "I will say this much: he has never once violated his word in the course of our… indirect dealings. If he says ten years, it will be ten years. He won't waste them. Neither should we."
The Governor sighed, shoulders slumping.
"Then we do as London suggests," he said. "We consolidate Bengal and the north. Keep the Maratha heartlands quiet. Strengthen Bombay's hand on the west coast.
And we watch the south.
Every rumour.
Every new gun they cast.
Every ship they build."
He leaned back.
"If the 19th century belongs to empires," he murmured, "then we are not the only ones auditioning."
III. Bombay Presidency – The Western Window
While Madras was lost and Calcutta reeling, the Bombay Presidency became the Company's remaining major bastion in western and parts of central India.
In a long, airy verandah of the Government House in Bombay, a group of officers and civil servants gathered around their own maps.
"Look at this," one administrator said, tracing a finger along western coastlines. "From Cochin downwards, our influence is… diluted. Travancore and Cochin now sit firmly in that Southern Confederation's circle.
And beyond them, this so-called Mandala of merchants reaches out into the Arabian Sea."
A naval officer with sun-marked skin frowned.
"We've heard increased traffic from:
Omani vessels,
some French-linked ships from the Mascarenes,
and even a few American traders.
They dock in ports like Cochin, Mangalore, and — now — Kesarinagara's connected harbours, then vanish eastward."
"The French?" another said sharply. "Are they meddling again?"
The officer shook his head.
"Not openly," he said. "If they are doing anything, it's through unofficial channels. Selling weapons, technology, engineers. Nothing we can publicly prove."
The Bombay Governor tapped the map thoughtfully.
"The danger is not only guns," he said. "It is prestige. When western traders start viewing Dakshina Rajya as:
a stable partner,
a safe harbour,
an alternative to our ports,
our leverage weakens."
Another factor weighed on them: the Maratha lands.
"What about the Maratha remnants?" someone asked.
A political agent replied,
"We have subdued the major powers, yes. Peshwa authority is gone. But do not mistake that for total submission. There are chiefs, brigands, disaffected nobles. If we strip too many regiments from the Deccan to attempt another southern campaign, they will sense the gap."
He looked around.
"The last Maratha war ended barely a few years ago. Memories are raw. Our hold is not yet iron."
"So we sit," the naval man muttered bitterly, "while a native kingdom claims our old harbours in the east and builds new ones in the south."
"Not sit," the Governor corrected. "We pivot.
Bombay will become:
our jewel port,
our western sword.
We:
increase dock capacity,
deepen ties with Gujarati merchants,
make sure that for anyone looking west, our ports are still more attractive than theirs."
He looked eastward, as if seeing through mountains to Kesarinagara.
"And meanwhile," he said, "we gather information. Ships passing the south will count how many of their banners fly. Merchants will tell us what prices they offer. Priests will speak of which gods they patronise.
Know your neighbour better than he knows himself — and one day, when the treaty permits, you can cut him with his own shadow."
IV. Europe Reacts – Calculating Eyes
News of the Treaty of Kesarinagara did not stay in India.
It flowed along trade routes, carried in ship logs, whispered in the taverns of Alexandria, the coffeehouses of Constantinople, the counting rooms of Amsterdam, and the salons of Paris.
1. France – The Old Rival Smiles
In Paris, a mid-level diplomat read an English paper's brusque summary:
"—the Company, having encountered insurmountable native resistance and facing political considerations, has agreed to a temporary arrangement with southern rebels—"
He smiled thinly.
"So," he murmured, "even the British bleed."
His superior, a veteran of European diplomacy, raised an eyebrow.
"You see opportunity?" he asked.
"Perhaps," the younger man said. "Here is a native ruler:
strong enough to hold territory,
organised enough to force a treaty,
stable enough to attract trade."
He shrugged.
"If we cannot yet match British naval presence in India, we can at least ensure that their monopoly weakens. A southern kingdom that resists English pressure might be inclined toward… other friends."
The elder diplomat cautioned,
"But careful. Open alliance with such a kingdom invites direct confrontation with Britain. Our Emperor is gone. Our appetite for colonial war is… limited."
The younger nodded.
"Then we move as merchants, not as armies," he said. "We sell:
arms,
advisors,
techniques.
We receive:
spices,
cotton,
and perhaps a better picture of British weaknesses."
He clinked his coffee cup against the table.
"Let the lion and the Englishman watch each other," he said. "While we… observe."
2. The Dutch – Counting Loss and Gain
In Amsterdam, Dutch traders frowned over their own maps.
"Once, Cochin was ours completely," an older merchant grumbled. "Now, these new southern rulers hold more sway there than Company or Crown."
Another soothed him.
"We have lost the grand empire," he said. "But not all trade. These confederated southerners have no navy like ours once had. They need:
ships,
crews,
knowledge of distant ports.
We could sell them both goods and passage."
"And what of the English?" the older man asked.
The younger smiled.
"We will sell to them as well," he said. "As long as they pay on time. Let others bleed for flags. We will count coins."
3. The Russians – A Distant Note
In St. Petersburg, the Tsar's foreign office received a brief, dry summary of the situation.
"A native confederation has emerged in Southern India," a report stated. "It has forced the English East India Company into a non-interference treaty of ten years over a major Presidency."
The Russian official snorted.
"Ten years is a blink," he said. "Still, it is… instructive. The English are not invincible."
His aide hesitated.
"Shall we act?" he asked.
"For now?" the official said. "We watch."
He underlined a line in the report:
'The Southern King shows unusual administrative and military competence.'
"Men like this," he mused, "change histories. We may well meet him again in our maps of Asia."
4. The Ottomans and Arabs – Trade Winds
In Constantinople, an advisor to the Sultan noted with interest:
"A southern Indian kingdom, rich in ports, hostile to the British. Perhaps more pepper and spices through lanes not controlled by London."
In Muscat and Basra, merchants were quicker.
Soon, word spread among dhow captains:
"There is a lion-bannered port in the south now. Safe harbour. Fair weighing. Fewer arbitrary taxes. They keep pirates down. Worth a visit."
The Arabian Sea began to feel a new wind.
Not yet a storm.
But a change.
V. The New World Watches
Across the ocean, in the United States, still young and expanding, the news arrived in fragmented form.
In Boston, an American captain who had traded quietly with Setty's alliance read about the treaty in a British merchant circular.
He laughed.
"So the British found someone they can't bully as easily," he said. "Good to know for future freight rates."
In Washington, a clerk in the State Department filed the information away.
"Not immediately relevant," his superior said. "But note it. As long as Britain is busy juggling rivals abroad, they have less attention for our matters."
Some American traders quietly increased their calls at southern Indian ports.
Better to spread risk between empires and emerging powers.
VI. Whispered in India – Beyond the South
Not all reactions came from foreign capitals.
Across India itself, the story spread — sometimes exaggerated, sometimes in scraps of truth:
"Did you hear? The English signed a treaty with an Indian king."
"What? Impossible."
"No, truly. In the south. A lion-banner kingdom. They even left Madras."
"Left? You mean they were driven out."
"Both. They left alive because they signed papers. Otherwise…"
In Punjab, Sikh officials heard the rumours.
One remarked,
"The English can be checked. Interesting. Noted."
In Awadh, nobles grew a little more restless.
In Hyderabad, the Nizam's court simmered with wounded pride and uneasy relief.
"They did not consult us," some muttered. "They made a treaty over our heads."
Others, more cautious, thought,
"At least there is now a buffer. Let the lion and the Company stare at each other. We will breathe in the gap."
VII. The Weight of a Treaty
Back in London, as debates subsided and tempers cooled, the Company's legal minds produced a final, sober assessment.
One of them summarised before the Board.
"Gentlemen," he said, "no matter what we feel, the facts are:
We have signed a ten-year non-interference treaty with the Southern Confederated Kingdom.
Breaking it openly:
risks Parliament censure,
risks Crown disapproval,
risks financial distrust from European and Indian partners.
undermines our ability to sign any future treaty.
Our enemies would say:
'The Company's word is worth nothing. Why sign with them?'
This could damage future annexations, alliances, and investments far more severely than the loss of one Presidency — even if that Presidency wounds our pride."
Carrington, listening, scowled.
"So we must simply endure the insult?"
The lawyer sighed.
"We endure," he said, "so that we can remain in the game.
In ten years:
the southern king may grow complacent,
internal factions may arise,
his allies may quarrel,
our intelligence may find levers.
If we cannot beat him with muskets today, we may beat him with money, intrigue, and time tomorrow.
But only if we are still a trustworthy contracting power."
He paused.
"And if, in those ten years, he grows stronger than we imagined?" Carrington asked.
The lawyer's eyes were unreadable.
"Then," he said slowly, "we will not be the only ones facing a new kind of world."
VIII. In Kesarinagara – A Distant Echo
Narasimha did not hear the full details of London's arguments.
But small fragments reached him:
a letter from a sympathiser in the British Parliament,
merchant gossip from European ports,
observations from Trinetra agents listening in Bombay and Calcutta.
One evening, Sri laid the latest reports on his table.
"London is… displeased," she said dryly. "But bound. The new king wishes not to be seen as your personal enemy. Or as the Company's puppet."
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"Good," he said. "Let his pride work in our favour for once."
Venkanna added,
"They are trapped by their own success. They built an empire on:
contracts,
charters,
treaties.
Now they cannot tear one without damage beyond our shores."
Kaveri leaned against a window, breeze lifting her hair.
"So they grit their teeth," she said, "and let the south exist. For ten years, at least."
Narasimha raised his gaze toward the night.
"No empire likes to blink," he said. "But once it does, others see that it is possible."
He imagined:
a clerk in Paris smiling over his coffee,
a Russian underlining lines in a report,
an Arab trader charting new routes,
a Bengal peasant wondering, for the first time, "If the south can push them back, why not us one day?"
He did not count it as victory.
Just as… a turn.
"A treaty can be broken," Sri warned. "They may wait, then strike in a new way."
"I know," he said. "That is why we will not waste these years."
He tapped the map of his realm.
"We will build:
schools,
armouries,
laws,
alliances,
so deep that even if they come back with all their might, they will find not scattered kingdoms, but a civilization standing in their path."
Kaveri smiled.
"And perhaps," she added, "when they come back, the world will have changed so much that even their maps feel old."
Narasimha chuckled softly.
"One step at a time," he said. "For now, let them argue in London while we lay foundations in Kesarinagara.
They fight over pride.
We fight for tomorrow."
Outside, the Lion Banner stirred in the night wind.
In London, an empire swallowed its anger to keep its contracts intact.
In Calcutta and Bombay, officers sharpened their pens and their suspicions.
In Europe and beyond, rival powers adjusted their calculations.
No one yet knew what the full 19th century would bring.
But one thing was now certain:
The British Empire had blinked.
And the world had seen it.
✦ End of Chapter 43 – Part II: "When the Empire Blinked" ✦