𑁍 Chronicle Note: Time & Timelines 𑁍
Narasimha's Birth: 1800 CE
Major Southern Victory over East India Company: 1824 CE
Fall of Madras & Treaty of Kesarinagara: 1825 CE
Current Chapter Time: around 1828–1829 CE
Narasimha's Age: ~29 years
Heirs:
Elder daughter – Rudrama Devi (the lion's first cub)
Younger son – Rajendra (the river-hearted prince)
The British Empire reels.
The Confederated Southern Kingdom stands.
But now the game changes:
From battlefields of dust and blood…
…to chessboards of ink, embassies, and marriage ties.
I. Kesarinagara – A Map of the World
Kesarinagara's royal council chamber smelled faintly of ink, sandalwood, and hot chai.
On the main wall hung a new kind of map.
It did not show only Rayalaseema, Andhra, Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, Kerala.
It showed:
the whole of Bharat – north and south,
the coasts and seas of Hind Mahasagara,
European lands far away: Inglistan, Faransa, Russiya, Ottoman Rum,
sea routes curling around Africa like blue snakes.
Tiny lion-marked pins indicated Dakshina Rajya's eyes and hands around the world.
Narasimha stood with arms folded, wearing a simple white angavastram draped over darker royal cloth. His hair was tied back—not elaborate, just enough to keep it from his eyes.
Sri stood beside him: Mahamantri, scribe, strategist.
On the low dais behind them sat Kaveri, regal yet relaxed, her saree like flowing river silk. At her feet, two children occupied a small carpet:
Rudrama Devi, hair tied with jasmine, eyes sharp and serious, was stacking small wooden elephants and horses into neat phalanxes—then cheerfully knocking them down.
Rajendra, slightly smaller, had stolen two of the elephants and was making them "fight" on the edge of the carpet, complete with exaggerated growling noises.
"Tell them again," Narasimha murmured to Sri, nodding to the councillors. "Clearly. Before someone suggests we marry our children to foreign princes and I jump out of this window."
Sri hid a smile and turned to face the assembled inner council:
Venkanna, old and watchful;
Ayyappa, arms crossed, expression a blend of boredom and mischief;
Raja Pandiyan of the south;
Avuku Raju of Bellary;
emissaries from Mysore, Travancore, Cochin;
a coastal merchant, Jagannatha Setty;
scribes, generals, and a few quietly seated Trinetra-linked observers.
"The world," Sri said, pointing to the map, "has not been idle since 1824–25."
Her stylus traced:
from London to Calcutta,
from Paris to Pondicherry,
from Lahore to Satara and Nagpur,
from Udaipur to coastal Arabia.
"In the north, the Company still holds Delhi, Bengal, and much of the Ganga plains. They have not forgotten that we:
broke their armies on the Penna,
took Madras,
forced a treaty in 1825."
She tapped London.
"Here, in Inglistan, their lords argue:
whether to accept this loss and consolidate the north,
or to try, through alliances and intrigue, to box us in."
Her hand moved to Paris.
"In France, old enemies of England smell blood. Some see us as a counterweight—a way to keep the British weaker on the seas."
She traced toward the north of Bharat.
"In the land of the Sikh Maharaja at Lahore, in the Maratha remnants, in Rajputana, they ask:
'If the South can throw out the Company, what does that mean for us? Is he our ally, our competition, or a fire that will draw British lightning while we breathe?'"
Venkanna cleared his throat.
"Which is a polite way of saying," he added dryly, "that everyone is wondering whether our lion will lie on his rock in peace… or start prowling north."
A councillor from coastal Andhra frowned.
"Raja," he said, addressing Narasimha, "with respect, is it not better to reach north now? To unite Bharat under your banner before the British can recover?"
Ayyappa rolled his eyes.
"Yes, of course," he said. "And while we're at it, let's also conquer China, open trade with America, build railroads, and maybe throw a feast for the gods on the moon."
Kaveri gave him a look; he shut up with a shrug.
Narasimha's gaze remained on the map.
"We are not ready to carry all of Bharat on our shoulders," he said. "And Bharat is not ready to let us. The north has its own kings, empires, and egos. They will not trade one foreign master for a southern one."
He pointed at the southern arc of the map.
"We are strong here. Not omnipotent. One bad famine, one foolish war, one betrayal, and this golden age cracks."
He turned to the council.
"So we do this properly:
We build alliances without becoming anyone's pawn,
we recognise the north's struggles without promising what we cannot deliver,
we use diplomacy, trade, and information as our first weapons."
He glanced back at his children on the carpet.
Rudrama Devi was now carefully rearranging her knocked-down pieces into a new formation.
"Because," he finished quietly, "I do not want my children to inherit a kingdom exhausted by my ambitions. I want them to inherit a realm that can still grow."
Kaveri's eyes softened at that.
Sri nodded.
"Then we begin," she said. "Envoys are coming."
II. Calcutta – Wounds and Calculations
Far away, in Calcutta, humid air clung to the skin and the pride of the East India Company.
In a high-ceilinged room lined with ledgers, the Governor-General's council sat.
Maps of India covered their walls too, but here the south was ringed not with lion pins, but with ink crosses—like healed scars that still ached.
Sir Henry Dalrymple, one of the senior Company men, slapped a file down.
"Reports from Madras—sorry, from what used to be Madras Presidency," he said bitterly. "Trade has shifted. Where once ships flocked to our port, they now call at:
Cochin,
Tuticorin,
Machilipatnam—
flying flags of Travancore, Cochin, Dakshina Rajya, or independent merchants under their 'protection'."
Another official, spectacles perched precariously, read from a note.
"They've minted their own coinage—some 'Simha Rupee'—standardised their measures, set up a civil service. This is no longer a bandit kingdom. It's… an organised state."
The word sounded almost like an insult.
A military man at the table grunted.
"Then we should treat it as such," he growled. "We give London our honest assessment:
that the Treaty of Kesarinagara was a mistake,
that with sufficient reinforcements, we could reclaim the south within five years—"
"No," interrupted a thin, sharp voice near the window.
All eyes turned.
Mr. Edward Harwood, once of Madras, now reassigned to Calcutta after the defeat, stood with arms behind his back.
He had more lines at the corners of his eyes now. Some from age. Some from watching plans burn.
"We tried force," he said. "We underestimated Narasimha Reddy, his Mandala, his… confederation. To rush in again without understanding the full board would be to feed more regiments into his jaws."
The general bristled.
"You would have us… cower?" he demanded.
Harwood shook his head.
"I would have us think," he said. "He has created:
a confederated kingdom,
alliances with southern princes,
a disciplined army,
a navy in cooperation with Travancore and Cochin,
An intelligence system that embarrassed ours.
But he does not yet have:
a full industrial base,
the financial reserves of the entire subcontinent,
or European support on his side as firm allies."
His gaze moved to the map.
"So," he concluded, "we must prevent him from gaining those things."
Another official looked intrigued.
"How?" he asked.
Harwood's answer was simple.
"Diplomacy," he said. "Isolation. We reframe him in European capitals as:
a local upstart,
useful for countering us, perhaps.
but dangerous, expansionist, 'oriental' enough that they hesitate to fully embrace him.
We:
quietly discourage Faransa and Russians from courting him too deeply,
keep Marathas, Sikhs, Rajputs guessing about his intentions,
perhaps suggest that if he grows too strong, he will be the one absorbing them next."
The Governor-General pursed his lips.
"A ring of doubt," he mused. "While we rebuild."
Harwood nodded.
"And," he added, "we send an envoy. A soft-voiced one."
The general snorted.
"To concede further?"
Harwood shook his head.
"To watch," he said. "To talk just enough, trade just enough, that they do not think us desperate enemies. We must never again let Narasimha Reddy be a mystery."
He did not add:
And we must never make the mistake of thinking him only a man of swords, rather than a king of systems.
In Harwood's mind, the lion on the southern map had ceased to be a symbol.
It was an opponent he both respected… and feared.
III. Pondicherry – Old Rivals, New Opportunities
In Pondicherry, where France still held a small but proud enclave, the sea breeze carried different whispers.
In a tiled courtyard smelling of coffee and tobacco, French officials debated.
"So," said Governor Duval, swirling wine in his glass, "the English have had their nose broken in the south."
Across from him, a lean man with military bearing—Colonel Armand de Villiers, veteran of older European wars and now 'adviser' in the colony—smiled.
"Broken, yes," he said. "Not yet cut off. But this 'Lion King' of the south… he intrigues me.
He has:
fought the Company to a standstill,
forced a treaty,
raised a confederation without collapsing into chaos.
That is no small feat."
A trader spoke up.
"Our ships already profit," he said. "Dakshina merchants purchase:
our rifles,
our cloth,
even our finer steel.
They pay in spice, cotton, raw silk, and even gem hints. They are… reliable partners."
The Governor's eyes gleamed.
"Should we not then court them more openly?" he asked. "If England loses more ground in India, France gains on the world stage."
De Villiers was more cautious.
"Up to a point," he said. "We must avoid triggering a wider war we are not yet ready for. But a treaty of friendship, expanded trade, perhaps even:
sharing some artillery designs,
sending 'observers' to study their governance…
That could be beneficial."
He looked toward the south, where beyond the horizon lay Kesarinagara.
"In that Narasimha," he mused, "I see something like what our philosophers dream of:
a ruler who balances sword and school,
who builds councils and codes.
If we play this well, we may have in him not a puppet, but a partner.
And a partner is sometimes more dangerous than a puppet… but more useful."
They agreed to send an envoy.
A letter began to be drafted in elegant French, to be translated into impeccable Persian and then Telugu:
"To His Majesty, the King-Protector of the Southern Confederated Realm…"
The world was moving closer to Kesarinagara's gates.
IV. Lahore – The Lion of the North Hears of the Lion of the South
In Lahore, in the court of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, sunlight glinted on gold, steel… and maps.
The Sikh Empire's ruler, the Lion of Punjab, sat on his low, jewel-encrusted throne, one eye clouded but gaze still sharp.
Before him knelt a vakil who had recently returned from the south, clothes dusty from long roads.
"So," Ranjit Singh said, stroking his beard, "tell me again. This southern king—this Narasimha Reddy. He has truly thrown the Company out of his lands?"
The vakil bowed.
"Ji, Maharaj," he said. "In the lands they call Dakshina Rajya, the Company's flags no longer fly. Madras Fort bears a lion banner. Their own coin, their own laws."
Ranjit Singh chuckled.
"Wah," he said softly. "So, the English lions bleed in their own jungle."
One of his sardars spoke anxiously.
"Maharaj," he cautioned, "if the British are wounded in the south, they may turn more fiercely toward the north. Toward us."
Ranjit Singh nodded.
"That thought has occurred to me," he said dryly. "Which is why we must consider:
Is this southern lion a shield for us?
A distraction for the English?
Or a future rival when the Company is crippled?"
Another advisor said,
"He has not sent us any message."
The vakil answered,
"Not directly, Sardar ji. But traders from the south bring tales. He:
does not claim 'Emperor of Bharat',
speaks instead of a 'Confederated South',
sends word that he respects the autonomy of other powers who resist the Company."
Ranjit Singh's good eye gleamed.
"Respect," he repeated. "Interesting word, coming from a king in his third decade of life who has already humiliated the English."
He tapped a finger on the armrest.
"Still, any man who can forge such a realm under the Company's nose is no fool. Nor is he likely to be content forever with just his own borders."
"Kya hukam, Maharaj?" an advisor asked.
Ranjit Singh smiled.
"We send our own vakil," he decided. "Not to swear fealty, not to beg alliance… but to see.
To measure his court, his councils, his strength. To let him know that the Lion of Punjab acknowledges the Lion of the South—and will watch him as closely as he watches us."
Outside, the Ravi flowed on.
Two lions had now heard of each other.
Bharat's own chessboard was not going to stay quiet.
V. Satara & Rajputana – Echoes of Choice
In Satara, where remnants of the Maratha power still flickered under British supervision, a lesser court murmured.
An old sardar, his body not as strong as in the days he'd ridden under Peshwa flags, pounded the floor with his staff.
"Arre!" he exclaimed. "In the south, a man is born in 1800, raises his lands, breaks the Company in 1824, throws them from Madras in 1825—and we here sit under their Resident's shadow, signing papers?"
A younger nobleman answered bitterly.
"By the time he rose, our chance had passed," he said. "Our defeat was sealed in 1818. Our armies disarmed, our forts taken. We have scraps."
The old sardar's eyes burned.
"So will we die chewing scraps while a lion feasts?" he spat. "Or will we at least send word that not all Maratha blood has turned to water?"
The Resident's agents listened in corridors.
Messages from Satara to Kesarinagara carried not just ink, but fear—fear of British retribution, fear of hope.
In Rajputana, in Udaipur's white palaces, a Rajput ruler looked out over shimmering lakes and desert.
One of his ministers said quietly,
"They say this southern king is just. That he builds councils, systems. That he does not try to erase local customs."
The ruler shrugged.
"Good for the south," he said. "Here, the English prefer us as semi-independent allies. If we court the southern lion too openly, the English snake may bite us harder."
"So we do nothing?" the minister asked.
"For now," the ruler said. "We send… courtesy. Gifts. We keep channels open.
We neither embrace him nor insult him. We let time show who stands in Bharat after another ten years."
North India held its breath and watched.
VI. The Twins of Kesarinagara
Back in Kesarinagara, the world's shifting plates were, for two small children, utterly irrelevant.
In a private courtyard shaded by neem and mango trees, Rudrama Devi stood with a tiny wooden sword in hand, staring down three palace boys older than her.
"You said girls should play inside," she declared, eyes blazing. "I said no. So now you must fight me. Three against one."
The eldest boy, son of a minor noble, shifted uneasily.
"Rudrama," he began, "if your father—"
She cut him off.
"He is not here," she said. "And I am not 'Rudrama' to you. I am Rudrama Devi, the eldest child of the King-Protector. If you will not fight, apologise."
Her posture was so reminiscent of Narasimha facing British officers that the boy's courage melted.
"We're sorry," he muttered. "We didn't mean—"
"Good," she said, lowering the sword. Then she grinned. "Now you have apologised, we can fight properly as friends."
From the balcony, Narasimha watched, hiding a smile behind his hand.
Beside him, Kaveri sighed.
"She will either be the greatest queen our realm has seen," she murmured, "or the reason half the nobility has early grey hair."
"Why 'or'?" Narasimha replied. "Both seem more likely."
He looked across the courtyard.
On the other side, Rajendra sat with an elderly scribe, watching him draw patterns in the sand.
"What is that?" Rajendra asked.
"The path of a spy," the scribe said. "See—here is the palace. Here are the roads. A foolish man goes straight. A wise man… curves."
Rajendra frowned, then used a stick to draw a new path.
"Or he goes like this," he said. "Through the kitchen. No one ever watches the kitchen."
The scribe blinked.
"Ah," he said. "You will give your father more headaches than your sister will."
Later, when both children burst into the study where Narasimha and Sri were bent over treaties, Rudrama shouted,
"Nanna! Show me the map again!"
Rajendra demanded,
"Nanna, when will the ships come from the land with funny hats?"
Kaveri scooped them both up.
"Maps after food," she decreed. "Foreigners after sleep."
Narasimha watched his family, a rare softness in his eyes.
He had seen too much death already, too many pyres. These two, living whirlwinds of curiosity and stubbornness, were his loudest answer to despair.
A small prayer escaped him, unvoiced:
Let them grow. Let them have years I have already walked. Let their wars be fewer than mine.
Far above, the gods heard.
They have not answered yet.
VII. Envoys at the Lion's Court
The day the envoys arrived, Kesarinagara turned into a festival of fabrics and flags.
From the west gate, a French delegation entered:
tricolour standards,
officers in blue coats trimmed with gold,
translators in Persian and Tamil.
From the southern road came an Ottoman-linked trader-embassy:
men in turbans and fezzes,
carrying silks and curiosities,
eyes sharp with mercantile assessment.
From the north-east, more modest but no less important:
a vakil from Lahore, bearing the seal of Maharaja Ranjit Singh,
a Maratha emissary from Satara, walking with wary dignity.
In the background, a lone British observer also watched—ostensibly a "trade representative" under the treaty, in truth one of Harwood's chosen eyes.
The court assembled in the great mandapa.
Columns carved with lions, elephants, and river goddesses framed the hall. Light filtered through latticed windows, catching on the Lion Banner hanging behind the throne.
Narasimha sat on that throne in full royal dress—jewels, crown, silk.
He looked every inch the king who had broken an empire.
But his eyes, as always, were more tired and more amused than his statues.
Kaveri sat at his side, equal in presence, if not in formal title.
Sri stood below with the council, her scrolls ready.
Rudrama and Rajendra had been strictly instructed to stay in the side gallery.
They obeyed.
Mostly.
They peered through the carved screen with unabashed interest.
The French envoy stepped forward first.
"In the name of His Most Christian Majesty's government," he said in Persian, "we greet the King-Protector of the Southern Confederated Realm.
Faransa recognises the strength and wisdom that has allowed you to bring peace to your south and to… rebalance the presence of other powers."
Narasimha smiled thinly.
"Your ships have been good customers and sellers," he said. "We have no quarrel with France. Speak openly."
The envoy bowed.
"We seek:
expanded trade rights,
mutual assurances of friendship,
and perhaps the exchange of military observers—for learning, not for interference."
Narasimha's gaze flicked briefly to Sri, then back.
"We are open to broader trade," he said. "Your guns and steel, our spices and cotton, our joint use of certain ports.
As for 'observers'—" his tone cooled slightly "—we will consider allowing a few select guests to see our army and navy in a limited fashion. On the condition that we may do the same in your ports and foundries."
The French envoy smiled.
"A fair request," he said. "We did not expect a man of the South to speak like a European minister."
Narasimha's eyes glinted.
"I am not a man of the South," he replied. "I am a man of Bharat, who happened to win in the south first. Do not make the mistake of thinking we are always provincial and you are always universal."
The hall rustled at the edge in approval.
The Ottoman-linked trader bowed next, proposing:
shared caravans through Arabia,
protections for Muslim pilgrims traversing southern ports,
Perhaps even joint ventures in coffee and horses.
Narasimha agreed in principle.
"Faithful from all sampradayas dwell in my realm," he said. "I have no wish to hinder them. As long as your traders respect our laws, we welcome such links."
Then came the vakil from Lahore.
He bowed, his turban dusted from long travel.
"From Maharaja Ranjit Singh, Sher-e-Punjab," he said in rich Hindustani, "greetings to Sher-e-Dakshin. The lion of the north salutes the lion of the south.
His message is:
'We have both dealt with the Firangis. You have thrown them from your lands. We hold them at arm's length. May our paths not collide unless dharma demands it.'"
A ripple of amusement passed through the court.
Narasimha inclined his head.
"Convey my respect to Maharaja Ranjit Singh," he said. "Tell him that we see Punjab's struggle, its successes.
We do not seek the north. We seek only to keep our south free and to ensure that any storm that comes to Bharat has more than one shelter to reckon with."
The vakil's eyes warmed.
"There is another line," he said. "Off the official scroll."
He hesitated, then added,
"Maharaja says: 'If the Firangis grow too arrogant again, perhaps one day lion will stand beside lion—not as master and servant, but as friends in battle.'"
Narasimha's lips curved.
"Tell him," he replied, "that if that day comes, he will find our spears pointed in the same direction. Until then, may his fields be green and his borders unworried."
Finally, the Maratha emissary stepped forward.
His clothes were less fine than the European envoys', but he wore his turban with stubborn pride.
"From Satara," he said, "where the Peshwa throne is quiet, but the Maratha spirit is not fully broken, we send greetings.
We bring no promises, no demands. We bring only a question:
'When you threw the Company from the south, did you think of us?'"
Silence fell.
Narasimha's face tightened.
"Yes," he said simply. "I thought of you. Of the battles you lost before I was old enough to hold a real sword. Of the treaties forced on you.
But when I rose, my own lands were aflame. I could not march north without setting my own house on fire. I chose to save what I could reach, rather than die trying to save everything at once."
He met the emissary's eyes.
"If that is cowardice," he said quietly, "then I will accept the curse of history and bear it. But know this: your loss taught me more than any book about how not to fight the English."
The emissary's expression softened, pain still there but wrapped in understanding.
"Then our defeat was not entirely wasted," he said. "Our blood watered a tree you now grow."
He hesitated, then added,
"Satara cannot openly ally with you. The Company's grip is too tight. But if ever you send word quietly:
for information,
for shelter for a messenger,
for a contact point—we will not turn you away."
Narasimha nodded.
"In the Mandala of Bharat," he said, "even fallen petals still carry fragrance."
Sri's stylus flew across parchment, recording commitments, soft and hard.
High up behind the lattice, Rudrama whispered to Rajendra,
"See, Anna? The whole world has to come to our house to talk. Nanna is like… the village head for the world."
Rajendra replied,
"Our house is too small. If more people come, they will step on my toys."
VIII. Private Storms, Quiet Hope
That night, after the feasts and bargaining and ceremonial exchanges of gifts, the palace lay quieter.
In a balcony overlooking the city, Narasimha leaned on the railing, crown gone, hair loose.
Below, Kesarinagara glowed.
Lamps along streets,
sounds of late music,
distant laughter.
Kaveri joined him, shawl around her shoulders.
"Your day was long," she said.
"Longer than the siege of Madras," he answered. "At least during a siege, no one smiles and offers you silver cups while thinking three layers of thoughts behind their eyes."
She chuckled.
"You handled them well," she said. "Faransa, Ottomans, Punjabis, Satara… and that sly Company watcher at the back."
"I saw him," Narasimha said. "Let Harwood watch. We will watch back."
He fell silent, then asked,
"Do you ever… fear that I will pull us into something too big? That one day I will misread this chessboard and the realm we built will be crushed between foreign stones?"
Kaveri looked out at the city.
"I fear many things," she said honestly. "I fear disease in the villages, drought in the deltas, stupidity in our own councils more than I fear foreign flags.
But I do not fear your intentions, Narasimha. Only your burden."
He exhaled.
"Our children," he said softly. "Will grow into a world where:
British are in the north,
our confederation in the south,
Europeans sniffing at our ports,
northern lions and remnants of Marathas and Rajputs watching us.
They will be born into politics sharper than any sword."
Kaveri smiled.
"Good," she said. "Better they be born in a world where we are players, not pieces."
She touched his hand.
"And they will not stand alone. They have you. Me. Sri. Venkanna. A whole generation of people who remember both slavery and the taste of breaking chains.
Our gift to them is not peace without problems. It is options."
He turned his hand, fingers lacing with hers.
Far above, the gods watched.
Lakshmi murmured,
"See how he worries? Not for his throne, but for his children's hearts."
Parvati nodded.
"And that," she said, "is why when we weigh his karmas, we keep finding reasons to favour his side."
Saraswati smiled.
"And why his story is not just one of war, but of governance, of alliances, of quiet, stubborn hope."
IX. A Web Across Bharat
In the months that followed, letters crossed Bharat more than armies.
From Kesarinagara, discreet vakils went north:
One to Lahore, with gifts and information.
One to Satara, carrying coded signals on how to reach Trinetra hands without Company eyes.
Ones to Rajput courts, to gauge which princes might quietly favour a Bharat less ruled by London.
From the north, replies came:
cautious,
curious,
sometimes outright fearful,
sometimes unexpectedly warm.
In a secret chamber beneath Kesarinagara, Trinetra's senior handlers met with Sri and Narasimha.
On the stone wall hung a different map.
This one was webbed with threads:
black threads for Company routes,
red for Dakshina's known allies,
gold for potential sympathetic nodes:
a Sikh officer here,
a Maratha landlord there,
a Rajput prince's younger brother,
a Muslim merchant in Lucknow,
a Bengali intellectual in Calcutta grumbling about Company arrogance.
Sri pointed.
"If we pull too hard," she said, "the web breaks. People die. The Company reacts with terror and fury.
If we pull too softly, nothing changes."
Venkanna murmured,
"Patience. The north is not ripe yet. The British grip there has not yet shown its full cracks. They have not yet overreached enough."
Narasimha felt the strange weight of time in his veins.
"I have more years than most," he said slowly. "I do not need everything to happen in this decade. But I must plant seeds now.
So that when future storms shake Bharat—even ones from beyond the stars—there is already a habit of cooperation in her bones."
Trinetra listened, silent.
Their work, already vast in the south, was now stretching tendrils north.
Not to control.
To connect.
A hidden Bharat Mandala was forming, the early spine of what, in another timeline, might be called a union, a coalition… or simply a stubborn refusal to die in pieces.
X. Closing Images – Lions, Children, and a World Turning
The chapter of politics did not end with a single treaty.
It stretched like a river, full of eddies and counter-currents.
We leave this stage with a series of images, like flickers from the Kala Chakra:
In London, a minister frowns at a report labelled:
"On the Consolidation of the Southern Confederated Kingdom and Its Implications."
He scribbles in the margin: "Contain, do not provoke."
In Paris, an artist sketches an exotic "Lion King of India" for a salon, not knowing the real man hates sitting still for portraits.
In Lahore, Ranjit Singh laughs as he reads Narasimha's latest letter:
"If ever we drink together, Maharaja, I offer you southern toddy. If you insist on your northern sharab, we will see whose head spins first."
He says, "Ah. This one writes like a friend and a rival both."
In Satara, an old Maratha sardar folds away a secret missive from Kesarinagara and whispers, "Maybe my grandchildren will see another sunrise we thought lost."
In Rajputana, a prince not yet king reads tales of the southern lion and feels his own ambitions stir, wondering what kind of Bharat will exist when he wears a crown.
In Kesarinagara, in a quiet study, Narasimha signs three different treaties:
one with French traders,
one with coastal Arab captains,
one with Travancore and Cochin on shared naval construction,
then groans dramatically and says,
"If I sign any more, my hand will defect to the British."
Sri rolls her eyes. Kaveri laughs. Ayyappa suggests they train a royal peon just for signature practice.
In a nursery, Rudrama Devi carefully places a lion toy at the centre of a ring of animals.
"This is Dakshina," she tells Rajendra. "This is us."
He puts a small wooden horse at the edge.
"This is someone new," he says. "We don't know if they are friend or enemy yet."
"Then," she decides, "we watch them. Like Nanna does."
Outside the door, Narasimha pauses, listening, an odd mix of pride and melancholy in his chest.
Far above, beyond clouds and stars, cosmic beings who will one day watch Avengers and alien fleets also watch this tiny, spinning planet.
They see a single region, in a single age, where:
a lion-king,
his river-queen,
their children,
their councils,
their spies and scholars,
are quietly changing the trajectory of a world that will one day collide with Marvel's storms.
For now, in the late 1820s, before telegraphs and trains, before Iron Man suits and vibranium shields, there is:
a southern realm at peace,
a northern land in tension,
an empire nursing wounds,
other empires watching,
and a single man born in 1800 who, by 1824–25, proved that even in Kaliyuga, empires can bleed.
The lions are on the chessboard now.
The next moves will decide whether Bharat becomes:
a patchwork of fallen pieces,
or
a Mandala that endures, even when cosmic lightning someday strikes her soil.
For the first time in a long time, the answer does not feel hopeless.
It feels… possible.
✦ End of Chapter 45 – "Lions on the Chessboard" ✦