✦𑁍 Chronicle Note: The Last Year of the Treaty 𑁍
Year: 1834 CE (approaching early 1835)
Treaty of Kesarinagara: Signed 1825 – Ten-year non-interference clause nearing its end.
Narasimha's Age: ~34–35 years
Rudrama Devi & Rajendra: ~5–6 years old
Realm Status:
Dakshina Rajya is educated, armed, industrialising, and quietly expanding its spy web.
British power holds the north but feels the south slipping away for good.
The seas whisper of alliances and betrayals.
War has not yet begun. But everyone is preparing for it.
I. The Countdown in Kesarinagara
In the inner chamber of Kesarinagara's palace, a simple brass water clock dripped steadily.
Each drop fell into a marked bowl, measured by scribes and priests, used for timing rituals and meetings.
On this day, it also marked something far greater.
"From today," Sri said, gazing at a palm-leaf chart, "the Treaty of Kesarinagara has one year left.
Three hundred sixty-five days until the English can claim they are no longer bound by their own signatures."
Narasimha stood at the window, watching Kesarinagara stir:
scholars walking toward Simha Vidyapitha,
soldiers drilling,
messengers leaving in all directions.
He did not look at Sri when he answered.
"They will not wait for the exact day," he said. "They are already planning. We would be fools to pretend otherwise."
On the table lay a different kind of map than before:
Not the broad mandala of Bharat, but a tighter, harsher diagram:
arrows from Hyderabad pressing into Rayalaseema and Andhra,
arrows from Goa, Bombay, and {off-map} British naval stations pushing into the Arabian Sea,
circles around Portuguese Goa,
small lion symbols marking Dakshina Rajya's border forts and naval bases.
Beside it lay a set of sealed scrolls, each bearing different script:
English,
French,
Portuguese,
Arabic,
Persian.
Venkanna, Sri, Ayyappa, and Kaveri stood around Narasimha.
Rahasya Seva's chief, a quiet man named Shankar Rao, knelt at the edge of the circle.
"We have confirmed," Shankar said, "through multiple sources:
The Company's council in Calcutta has authorised preparations for a 'corrective action' once the treaty expires.
They are pressuring the Nizam of Hyderabad to be their land-ally in the south.
They have opened back-channel talks with Portugal, using Goa as their staging ground for a western-sea attack."
Narasimha finally turned.
"And how much of this," he asked mildly, "did we discover… and how much did Trinetra whisper in your ear after they already knew?"
Shankar smiled wryly.
"About half and half, Maharaja," he admitted. "We traced Company money moving into Hyderabad and Goa. But the exact code names, the shape of their naval mobilisation—that came from Trinetra's… deeper channels."
Ayyappa grinned.
"See?" he said. "Even our spies have spies."
Sri shot him a look.
"Let the world think Rahasya Seva is the whole story," she said. "That's how it should be. They will waste their time learning our official tricks while Trinetra walks between their lines."
Kaveri stayed leaning against a pillar, arms folded, eyes on the map.
"This plan of theirs…" she murmured. "What do they call it?"
Shankar produced a small, translated scrap.
"Among themselves—at least in one Calcutta circle—they speak of an 'Anvil and Tide' strategy," he said.
"Land forces pressing from Hyderabad like an anvil… and a sea-borne strike from Goa and western waters as a wave to break us."
"'Anvil and Tide'," Ayyappa snorted. "Poetic. Dangerous."
Narasimha placed a hand on the map where Rayalaseema met the northern border.
"And we," he said softly, "will be the lion that bites the hand holding the hammer… and claws the tide before it reaches the shore."
He looked at Shankar.
"For now, we keep this knowledge here," he said. "Rahasya Seva will prepare visible counter-espionage. Let them play the open game."
His gaze turned to Sri and Venkanna.
"Trinetra," he continued, "will move in silence:
deeper in Goa,
deeper in Hyderabad,
deeper in London and Lisbon."
He picked up one small lion token and placed it just off the coast near Goa.
"The British think 1835 will be the year they reclaim the south," he said. "Let us make it the year they learn what it means to attack a king who has spent a decade preparing."
II. London – The War of Voices
Thick fog hung outside the windows of a London meeting room.
In a dark wood-panelled chamber lit by oil lamps, the Company's senior directors, allied MPs, and Crown representatives argued.
On the wall, an enormous world map: red-painted British holdings, lines of trade routes, tiny notes in neat English script.
India was a great smear of red and shaded uncertainty.
Sir William Fairburn, a director with sharp eyes and sharper ambitions, stabbed a finger at the south.
"Gentlemen," he declared, "we cannot allow this… 'Confederated Southern Kingdom' to stand.
What began as a local rebellion has become:
an organised state,
with a million men under arms,
a growing fleet,
factories, schools…
and a ruler whom some in Europe whisper of as 'enlightened'."
Another director, older and more cautious, lifted his brows.
"And what do you propose, Sir William?" he asked. "We march another three regiments into that lion's mouth? You were not in Madras in 1824–25."
Fairburn clenched his jaw.
"No," he said, "we do not rush blindly.
We:
rebuild,
ally,
and then crush them with overwhelming force once this cursed treaty lapses."
He turned to a representative of the Foreign Office.
"We have Spain's decline to study," he went on. "We will not be remembered as the fools who let a jewel slip into native hands forever."
The Foreign Office man drummed his fingers.
"Portugal," he said, "has been… open to discussion. Goa remains theirs. They fear being overshadowed by us, but they fear more being cut out of Indian trade."
He pointed to the western coast.
"A joint operation," he suggested. "We provide:
main fleets,
troops,
command.
They provide:
harbour access at Goa,
local knowledge,
deniability when needed."
Fairburn nodded.
"And on land," he added, "we have our 'friend' the Nizam of Hyderabad.
The southern lion has no love for him. He is isolated, hemmed by Narasimha's allies.
We can promise him:
restoration of prestige,
perhaps even expansion into border areas,
if he marches when we call."
Someone objected.
"The optics," a politician cautioned. "We do not want to appear as naked aggressors."
Fairburn smiled thinly.
"Then we present it as a correction," he said. "A response to:
alleged 'border raids',
'interference' with imperial trade,
'destabilisation' of neighbouring states.
We have men in Calcutta already planting such reports."
A younger MP, listening quietly, interjected.
"And if we fail again?" he asked. "We risk not just losing the south, but inspiring rebellion in the north. The Sikhs, the Marathas' remnants, the Bengal intellectuals…"
Silence.
Fairburn's eyes hardened.
"If we do nothing," he replied, "we send a worse message:
'Defy us, and in ten years' time, we will sign a treaty and go away.'
Our empire cannot afford that."
The meeting ended with nothing signed… but with:
orders drafted for fleet mobilisation,
letters to Lisbon,
coded dispatches to Hyderabad,
fresh funds for espionage in Dakshina Rajya.
London's fog swallowed the city.
The lion in the south never saw it.
But he felt its intention.
III. Calcutta – Spies, Sabotage, and a Hidden Eye
In Calcutta, humid air clung to everything.
In an upper room near the Hooghly, two men sat over a table:
one in Company uniform,
one in simple local dress.
Between them lay a map of Dakshina Rajya marked with red pins.
"This one," the officer said, tapping Kesarinagara, "is beyond our reach for now.
But here—" he moved his finger to:
a smaller port town,
a border market near Hyderabad,
a textile centre—
"—we can:
buy informants,
plant agitators,
bribe petty officials."
The local agent nodded.
"And your… 'friends' north of Nizam-allied territories?" he asked.
"Do they know of your plan?"
The officer smirked.
"The Sikhs? The Maratha remnants? The Rajputs?" he said. "Let them think we are merely 'reassessing' after our previous… embarrassment.
We will show our true hand when the treaty dies."
He did not know that just across the street, in a cramped boarding house, an unremarkable "carpenter" from Dakshina had been listening for weeks.
The carpenter's name to neighbours was Gopal.
To Rahasya Seva, he was Agent R-32.
To Trinetra, he was known as Second Eye on the Hooghly.
Rahasya Seva knew him as a useful asset.
Trinetra knew:
the faces of his wife and child back home,
the exact pattern of the officer's meetings,
the hidden codes in the shipping manifests.
As the Company officer and his fixer talked, Gopal noted:
code words,
planned routes,
hints of Goa and Hyderabad.
That night, he wrote an innocuous letter to "his cousin in Rayalaseema" about "grain shipments delayed by certain fat red birds who think they own the river."
Rahasya Seva censors let it pass—already trained to decode such metaphors.
But deep within Nallamala's rock, Trinetra interpreters smiled more widely.
They saw in his letter an extra layer:
a subtle pattern of ink thickness,
the rhythm of certain repeated words—a private code known only to Trinetra handlers.
From that single letter, Trinetra confirmed:
the British timeline,
early phases of coastal infiltration,
the involvement of a particular Calcutta-based network.
Rahasya Seva proudly reported:
"We have excellent coverage of Calcutta's overt preparations."
Trinetra quietly corrected gaps without ever claiming credit.
To the outside world—and even to most of Kesarinagara—Rahasya Seva looked like the vigilant shield.
Behind it, Trinetra was the knife.
IV. Goa & Lisbon – The Cross and the Lion
In Goa, the chapel bells rang over waves and whitewashed buildings.
Governor Almeida of Portuguese Goa paced his office, reading the latest letter bearing British seals.
Beside him, an advisor, older and more cautious, looked uneasy.
"So," Almeida murmured, "the English wish to:
use our harbours,
co-station some of their ships,
share 'intelligence' about this southern kingdom."
The advisor said,
"Excellency, Portugal has lost much ground in the East. An alliance could revive our importance. But…"
He gestured vaguely toward the south.
"This Narasimha," he said, "has not attacked us. He has not seized Goa, even though he could perhaps have tried.
If we openly aid his enemies, we invite his wrath."
Almeida frowned.
"The English promise us:
favourable trade concessions,
protection for our shipping,
perhaps even silent support in any disputes with local powers.
And if we refuse, they will treat us as relics while they grow stronger in the north."
He sighed.
"We are a small kingdom far from home," he muttered. "Survival sometimes requires distasteful bargains."
He sent a cautious acceptance:
limited harbour access,
some joint patrols,
plausible deniability.
Far away in Lisbon, ministers debated the same, balancing pride against pragmatism.
No one in those European halls knew that in one Goan tavern near the docks, a "half-Mangalorean" sailor was nursing wine and listening carefully.
He spoke Konkani and Portuguese haltingly, laughed too loudly, played cards badly.
No one suspected he was:
trained in Kesarinagara,
encoded with both Rahasya Seva and Trinetra protocols.
Through him, Dakshina Rajya learned:
which docks would host British ships,
which Goan officers were sympathetic or corrupt,
which local families were quietly uncertain about provoking their powerful southern neighbour.
The lion did not roar across the border.
It watched.
And prepared.
V. Hyderabad – An Anvil Being Forged
In Hyderabad, the palaces of the Nizam glittered with imported chandeliers and local opulence.
At a silent hour, the Nizam sat with a British political agent.
"You ask much," the Nizam said, fingers playing with a jeweled ring.
"You ask:
that I march my troops south,
that I threaten a king who has never directly stolen my lands,
that I risk open war with a realm whose army is… not insignificant."
The British agent, Mr. Lyddon, smiled thinly.
"Your Exalted Highness," he said smoothly, "we do not ask you to stand alone.
Our regiments will move as well.
Our guns, our ships, our money.
Narasimha Reddy has:
cut off Company influence in the south,
inspired unrest in other native courts,
invited foreign powers to his ports.
If he grows further, he will overshadow Hyderabad also."
The Nizam's eyes narrowed.
"He is already more beloved among his people than I am among mine," he said. "His schools, his reforms… they speak loudly."
"Then all the more reason," Lyddon replied, "to remind your own subjects where true authority lies.
We can help arm your troops better, finance upgrades, perhaps even… adjust borders when this is done."
The Nizam hesitated.
He had his own grievances:
pressure from reformers,
whispers of comparison to the southern king,
fears of being sidelined.
Finally, he nodded slowly.
"I will prepare," he said. "Quietly.
When your treaty ends, and you give the sign, Hyderabad will move."
He did not notice the servant girl in the corridor, listening through a crack.
She was nobody.
A shadow around pillars.
Later that night, she left a slipper "accidentally" near the kitchen steps, where a stable boy would find it.
The stable boy, known to most as Rafiq, was in reality a link in Trinetra's chain.
By the time the moon set, a coded story in the pattern of a devotional song was already being hummed in a roadside dhaba where a Dakshina caravan had conveniently stopped.
Rahasya Seva would later receive confirmation from their own channels.
Trinetra already knew:
the Nizam's decision,
the British promises,
the probable routes.
VI. Paris, Istanbul, Washington – Distant, Interested Eyes
While India prepared for fire, the world's distant capitals watched the smoke.
Paris – Between Romance and Realpolitik
In Paris, salons buzzed with talk of revolutions and philosophies.
In a quieter Foreign Ministry office, a French diplomat read reports from Pondicherry and Cochin.
"Dakshina Rajya continues to expand:
schools,
shipyards,
textile markets,"
he read aloud.
"They buy our rifles, our clocks, our books. They pay on time. Their envoys speak decent French-inflected Persian."
The minister tapped the paper.
"And our English friends?" he asked.
"They are… uneasy," the diplomat replied. "The south is a thorn in their flesh. They plan something when that decade-long treaty expires."
The minister smiled.
"Then we shall:
sell to both sides,
promise much,
commit little,
until we see who bleeds more."
Still, some French officers kept a soft fondness for the lion-king.
"An Indian sovereign who reads, builds councils, and beats the English," one remarked. "There is a certain… charm in that."
Istanbul – The Ottomans Weigh Trade and Faith
In Istanbul, the Ottoman court considered letters from their agents in Bombay and the Arabian Sea.
"This southern kingdom protects Muslim merchants, allows mosques, and has not attacked our pilgrims," an advisor reported.
"The English… have behaved less kindly in some ports."
The Grand Vizier stroked his beard.
"We will not entangle ourselves in their Hindu-Muslim politics," he decided. "But we will:
continue trade with both,
encourage our captains to treat Dakshina flags with respect,
and watch.
If the English lose more ground, their sea-lanes may shift in ways profitable to us."
Washington – A Young Nation's Curiosity
Across the ocean, in Washington, the United States was still a young republic.
In a modest State Department room, a clerk read a report from an American merchant captain.
"The southern parts of India,"
"are ruled now by some native king, not the British— or so my informants say.
He keeps decent order. His officials bargain hard but fair.
Our ships find better pepper and cardamom there than under British monopoly.
Worth exploring trade treaties in future."
The official in Washington underlined:
"better pepper",
"not British-controlled."
"A useful counterweight," he murmured. "We have our own history with the British. An India not entirely under their thumb… that is interesting."
America was not yet ready to meddle on that side of the globe.
But it filed away the name Dakshina Rajya in its growing list of places where commerce might one day trump distance.
VII. Spy War – The Rahasya Seva's Duel
Back in Dakshina Rajya, the invisible war sharpened.
Rahasya Seva, proud of its early success, now faced more ruthless British efforts.
One evening in Madurai, a Rahasya Seva officer named Subramanian received a tip:
A British "missionary" had been:
over-generous with donations,
over-curious about troop movements,
too skilled at maps for a simple man of God.
Subramanian and his small team watched a church service from the shadows.
Afterwards, they trailed the missionary.
In a narrow lane, the foreigner paused and bent to tie his shoe.
Subramanian stepped forward.
"Padri saab," he said politely, "for someone devoted to souls, you seem very interested in barracks."
The missionary stiffened imperceptibly.
"I care only for the plight of the poor," he said in halting Tamil.
Subramanian smiled.
"As do we," he said. "So we ensure that foreign armies do not trample their fields because someone drew them a nice map."
The "padri" ran.
He didn't get far.
Rahasya Seva operatives moved like a net.
Later, in a quiet room, documents pulled from the man's satchel revealed:
lists of coastal batteries,
rough estimates of Lion Legion troop strengths,
notes on naval dockyards.
Sri read the report in Kesarinagara.
"Well done," she told Shankar Rao. "Make sure rumours spread that this is the second such spy we've caught this month."
Shankar frowned.
"But it's the first," he said.
Sri's eyes glinted.
"I know," she replied. "But I want London to think our net is even tighter than it is."
In truth, Rahasya Seva missed some agents.
They caught the bold ones, the sloppy ones, the over-confident.
The most subtle infiltrators—those who:
never asked direct questions,
never drew obvious maps,
moved money more than men—
often slipped past their outer filters.
And that was where Trinetra moved.
VIII. Trinetra's Invisible Hand
In a coastal town near the Hyderabad border, a British-paid agent named Imtiaz ran a money-changing stall.
He also:
relayed messages,
passed coded ledgers,
occasionally paid local toughs to stir minor trouble.
Rahasya Seva had a file on him.
"Suspicious," it read. "Possible smuggler. No direct contact with foreign officials. Low priority."
Trinetra disagreed.
Through:
a beggar boy,
a temple singer,
and a seemingly drunk soldier,
they had traced Imtiaz's web.
One night, as he sat counting coins, a middle-aged merchant entered his stall.
"Good business?" the merchant asked.
"By Allah's grace," Imtiaz replied, not looking up.
The merchant smiled.
"Grace falls in many forms," he said. "Sometimes as a warning."
Imtiaz finally glanced up.
In the merchant's gaze he saw something he couldn't name:
not local,
not foreign,
utterly sure.
Within days:
the money-changing stall was "bought out" by a new owner,
Imtiaz "decided" to move inland,
the British agent using him found his messages delayed, misdirected, or rephrased.
On paper, Rahasya Seva would later claim they had "neutralised" a suspected node.
In reality, Trinetra had:
turned the node,
fed controlled misinformation north,
and quietly closed a gap in the border's armour.
No one in the wider bureaucracy knew.
Narasimha did.
He sat with Sri and Venkanna in the Nallamala chamber and listened to Trinetra's latest briefing.
"Rahasya Seva is proud," he said. "Let them be. Pride will keep their morale high.
But you… you must never seek applause. Your reward is that the realm still exists when the battle smoke clears."
The Trinetra handler nodded.
"To be unseen," he said, "is both our curse and our shield."
IX. The Lion's War Room
By late 1834, Narasimha convened a council unlike any before.
Not in the grand Sabha Mandapa, but in a war room carved partly into the rock below the palace.
Maps covered the walls, lit by oil lamps.
On the central table:
wooden markers for regiments,
ships carved from dark wood,
coloured strings tracing routes.
Generals from:
Rayalaseema,
Tamilakam,
Karnataka,
Kerala,
stood alongside:
admirals,
Rahasya Seva heads,
merchant alliance leaders,
representatives from Mysore, Travancore, Cochin.
At the far end, a messenger from Ranjit Singh's court stood as an observer, invited quietly.
Narasimha's hand swept across the table.
"The British plan an Anvil and Tide," he said.
"We will counter with Simha Mudra – the Lion's Paw.
Our claws:
Northern Paw – Land Defence & Counterstroke
Fortify all key passes facing Hyderabad.
Prepare mobile forces to avoid being pinned.
Simultaneously:
whisper to Hyderabad's own nobles,
stir their doubts,
leak tales of Narasimha's justice compared to Nizam's excess.
If the Nizam marches, he will do so on weakening legs.
Western Paw – Sea Interdiction
Garuda and Makara Fleets will NOT sit and wait near our coasts.
They will:
patrol nearer to Goa,
disrupt any build-up,
threaten British-Portuguese logistics before they are ready.
We will not respect invisible lines on water.
Inner Paw – Intelligence & Sabotage
Rahasya Seva will increase visible crackdowns on spies.
Trinetra will:
quietly sabotage ammunition depots,
delay shipments,
engineer 'accidental' disagreements between British and Portuguese sailors.
Soft Paw – Diplomacy & Narrative
Envoys will:
remind France and Ottomans of their interests in a weaker England,
send assurances to Sikhs and Maratha remnants that we do not seek their lands,
encourage them to stay ready in case the north wavers.
Let England fear a multi-front crisis if they overreach."
He looked around.
"This is not 1824," he said. "We are no longer rushing from battle to battle, improvising.
We have:
trained millions,
built ships,
learned their ways,
studied their greed.
If they come… we will not merely survive.
We will break their appetite for southern conquest for at least another century."
A general from Karnataka, Avuku Raju, grinned fiercely.
"Say the word, Maharaja," he said. "My horsemen are itching for a real test again."
Raja Pandiyan of the Tamil south nodded.
"Our fields are ready," he said. "Our people have tasted freedom long enough to know its worth."
From the side, the vakil from Lahore cleared his throat.
"Maharaja Ranjit Singh sends this," he said, unfolding a letter.
"I cannot promise troops; my own lands face their own balance.
But if the British commit too much to the south and weaken elsewhere,
know that Punjab's eyes will be open.
A wounded tiger must watch its flanks."
Narasimha smiled.
"Sometimes," he said, "the knowledge that others are watching is enough to make empires hesitate."
He dismissed the council late into the night.
When they had gone, Kaveri remained behind.
"You speak like everything is under control," she said softly. "Is it?"
He stared at the map.
"No," he admitted. "No plan survives first contact with reality.
But we are not walking blind into 1835.
We walk with:
our eyes open,
our claws ready,
our children already learning to read the maps we leave behind."
She stepped closer.
"And if," she asked, "this war costs us dearly?"
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Then," he said, "let it cost me first."
X. The Last Calm Night
On a quiet night at the end of 1834, the palace roof was cool under bare feet.
Rudrama Devi and Rajendra sat wrapped in shawls between their parents, looking up at the stars.
"Nanna," Rudrama asked, "is it true that stars are other worlds?"
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"Yes," he said. "Some are other suns. Some are things I cannot explain yet. Some… are watching us even now."
Rajendra squinted.
"Then do they see our Simha Sena?" he asked. "Do they see our ships?"
"I am certain they do," Kaveri replied. "They see:
our soldiers,
our schools,
our merchants,
our spies,
and they are… curious."
Rudrama rested her head on her father's arm.
"Will there be war again?" she asked bluntly.
Silence.
Narasimha looked at Kaveri.
Then at the distant dark line where land met sky.
"Yes," he said finally. "I think so.
Men in London and Hyderabad want to test whether our roar was a lucky sound or a true voice."
"Will we win?" Rajendra asked.
Narasimha did not answer immediately.
"We will fight," he said. "With everything we have built.
With:
your teachers' wisdom,
your uncles' swords,
your grandfather's blessings,
and the courage of people who refuse to go back to chains."
He ruffled their hair.
"And you," he added, voice softer, "will live in whatever world is left after.
So I must make sure it is not a broken one."
Far above, the gods watched:
a man who could not die unless he chose,
a kingdom preparing for a second great test,
children whose lives would span from cannon era to the edge of Marvel's age.
Lakshmi whispered,
"When the treaty ends, the game changes forever."
Vishnu nodded.
"And when the British hammer falls," he replied, "it will find the anvil has grown teeth."
The countdown to 1835 continued:
in water clocks,
in troop rotations,
in ships quietly loading supplies,
in letters crossing oceans.
The war had not yet begun.
But in the hearts of kings, directors, generals, spies, and gods…
…it already had.
✦ End of Chapter 47 – "Storm Before the Roar" ✦