✦ 𑁍 Chronicle Note: 1843–1844 CE – The Year When Old Doors Reopened 𑁍
A demon had died in a village that had never even seen a British regiment.
A lion-king had bled into its dust, still standing long after any mortal should have fallen.
And a bald sorcerer from distant mountains had stepped through a circle of light into Rayalaseema's sky, fought beside him, and left as quietly as she came.
To the common folk, the story was softened.
"Some terrible calamity," the elders said vaguely. "Averted by the grace of God and the courage of our Maharaja."
No one mentioned the smell of brimstone, or the way the stars had seemed too close that night.
But Narasimha Reddy remembered every heartbeat.
He remembered realizing something that had nothing to do with swords or muskets:
Armies, navies, and spies guarded his people from men.
Almost no one guarded them from the unseen.
That, he decided, could not remain so.
I. A Lion Under a Peepal Tree
Kesarinagara's night gardens breathed cool air and incense. The palace lamps had dimmed, the court gone, the scribes dismissed. Crickets sang a rough chorus, and somewhere in the distance a temple bell chimed the late hour.
Under an old peepal tree, Narasimha sat cross-legged, his back against the trunk, a small oil lamp burning at his side. Fresh bandages wrapped his ribs where the demon's claws had punched through muscle and almost through the divine promise woven into his bones. The wound already itched with healing, but the ache inside his chest did not fade so easily.
Guru Gosayi Venkanna sat opposite him, as dignified as ever, his ochre robe pooling neatly around him. His eyes watched the king the way a physician watches a recovering patient: not for fever in the body, but for the heaviness behind the gaze.
"You are brooding, Narasimha," Venkanna said quietly. "You glower as if the peepal tree personally offended you."
Narasimha snorted.
"I was nearly shredded by something that stepped out of a hole in the sky," he replied. "Forgive me if I am in a contemplative mood."
Venkanna's lips twitched.
"You have been skewered by British bayonets and made jokes about paperwork while bleeding," he said. "This is not about pain."
Narasimha stared at the lamp flame.
"That village would have died without her," he said finally. "Without Yao. Without Kamar-Taj. My men fought bravely. I fought. You stood like a mountain. But in the end, it was her circles of light, her spells, that forced the beast back. If she had been delayed, if some cosmic traffic jam had slowed her portals, what then? I would still be breathing." He touched his chest, grim. "But the children in that village? The old man with the broken leg? They would have been ash."
Silence lay between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy.
"For centuries," Venkanna said at last, "this land had lines of kṣetra-pālakās, temple guardians, forest watchers, monks who knew mantras that could make even stubborn spirits pause. They stood where the seen world frayed. Then the kingdoms fell. Patronage rotted. Invasions burned universities like Nalanda and Takṣaśilā—not only for wealth, but because some of those halls held knowledge of powers that invaders feared or wished to steal. When gold disappears, guardians starve."
He sighed softly.
"Some of those lineages retreated to caves and forests," he went on. "Others became ordinary: shopkeepers, farmers, priests who remember a few old verses and forget why their grandfathers slept with a spear at the village edge. A few still stand watch quietly, but there is no longer a mandala, a circle. Only scattered dots."
"And Kamar-Taj?" Narasimha asked, thinking of Yao's effortless grace with time and space. "They claim to guard the whole world."
"They do," Venkanna said. "But their duty is to the entire plane—this Earth and many realms brushing against it. When Dormammu yawns, when some Western sorcerer pokes the wrong dimension, Kamar-Taj must respond. They cannot hover over every small shrine in Rayalaseema. They are archers on the walls of a great city. You are the man who walks its streets."
Narasimha exhaled, throat tight.
"We have an army that can face British battalions," he said slowly. "A navy that can keep Company ships nervous. Trinetra and Rahasya Seva Mandal watch spies and traders from Kabul to Goa. I wrestled a constitution into existence so that even I am bound by law. And yet, when a tear opens in the sky, what do we send? One half-trained king, an old sadhu, and a handful of soldiers with sincere spears. That is not a system. That is a miracle waiting to fail."
Venkanna's gaze softened.
"So make it a system," he said. "You are Chakravartin, head of a Mandalic Dharmic Federation. Your dharma is not only to tax and to punish. It is to protect all who live under your circle—seen and unseen."
Narasimha spread his hands helplessly.
"With what? If I proclaim tomorrow, 'Behold, I create a Ministry of Demons and Portals', half the realm will panic, the other half will accuse me of blasphemy, and the Finance Mahamantri will faint dead away. The British will call me mad in their newspapers. Again."
Venkanna chuckled.
"Then do what kings have always done," he said. "Give a dangerous thing a boring name."
Narasimha blinked.
"A boring name?" he repeated.
"The duller the better," Venkanna said serenely. "Something that makes even curious British clerks yawn by the fifth line. On the surface, it will be a department that deals with culture, temples, and heritage. Behind that curtain, a circle of siddhars, guardians, and specialists who handle… anomalies."
He held Narasimha's gaze.
"Call it," Venkanna suggested, "the Department of Culture, Sacred Heritage and Temple Affairs. Let scribes shorten it to DCSHTA and complain about how it does not roll off the tongue. Let everyone think it is about festival grants and temple renovations. And within it, quietly, we build your Mandala of the Unseen."
The king's lips slowly curved into a reluctant smile.
"A department so dull in name," he mused, "that the East India Company's translators will fall asleep before they reach anything dangerous."
Venkanna's eyes glinted.
"Exactly," he said. "You have learned one of the higher yogas: Yogā of Bureaucracy."
Narasimha laughed, the sound cracking some of the tightness in his chest.
"All right, Guruji," he said. "Let us build a veil within a veil."
II. The Most Boring Edict in the Realm
The next morning, the council chamber was filled with ministers, scrolls, and the faint smell of sandalwood and ink. Sunlight fell in rectangles on the polished floor, catching motes of dust and tension both. Narasimha sat at the head of the low table, bandage hidden under royal robes, expression thoughtful.
Rama Sastry, Mahamantri and legal architect of the Federation, adjusted his spectacles and read aloud from the draft edict.
"'By the grace of the Divine and in accordance with the Constitution of the Mandalic Dharmic Federation,'" he intoned, "'we hereby establish the Department of Culture, Sacred Heritage and Temple Affairs—DCSHTA—to oversee the management, restoration, and ethical administration of religious institutions, sacred sites, cultural relics, manuscripts, and associated rituals.'"
The Finance Mahamantri, a perpetually worried man, made a small sound halfway between a sigh and a prayer. "This sounds expensive," he murmured.
"Everything worth doing is expensive," Narasimha replied. "Except bad decisions. Those are free upfront and costly later."
Sri, head of Rahasya Seva Mandal, leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"And this DCSHTA," she said, "will also have… other duties. Duties not listed in this very respectable edict."
"Of course not," Rama Sastry said dryly. "If we wrote 'and shall secretly manage interdimensional anomalies and demonic incursions', the Council of Nobles would have a collective heart attack. No, on paper, this is about heritage, temples, culture. That is how it must appear to the Councils, courts, and public records."
He glanced at Narasimha, the hint of a question in his eyes."And off paper?" he asked.
"Off paper," Venkanna answered, "it will host a hidden circle: the Council of Siddhars and Temple Guardians. The Mandala of the Unseen will sit within the DCSHTA like a lamp in a niche—visible only to those who know where to look."
General Jayasingha, his arms folded across his broad chest, frowned.
"And this Mandala," he said, "what exactly will it do that my soldiers cannot? My men are trained to fight. Give them a target, they will charge."
"Your men are excellent at killing things that bleed in ordinary ways," Venkanna said. "But when you thrust a spear at a shadow, and the shadow laughs, you need another training."
Narasimha met the General's gaze.
"The Mandala will not be an army," he said. "Think of it as a… specialist guild. When a strange relic appears, when a cult starts chanting in a language no one should know, when a village spirit starts attacking instead of protecting, the Mandala's people will respond. Sometimes they will need your support. But often, a full regiment would only frighten villagers and attract attention we do not want."
Jayasingha grunted.
"I'll cooperate," he said. "Just don't ask my men to chant while marching. They already complain I make them do enough things they don't understand."
Kaveri, watching from Narasimha's right, spoke for the first time, voice calm but intent.
"And to whom will this Mandala answer?" she asked. "On record, DCSHTA will answer to the Minister for Culture and Sacred Heritage. But when something truly dangerous happens?"
Rama Sastry tapped the scroll thoughtfully.
"The Constitution says all departments are under civilian control," he said. "DCSHTA, publicly, reports to the Minister, who reports to the Prime Minister, who is answerable to the Council of Commons. That must remain true. But there is room in our clauses for a 'classified spiritual security' remit to the Chakravarti."
He looked at Narasimha.
"In such matters," he continued, "you can issue sealed directives. The High Court will know only enough to ensure we don't violate basic rights. The Dharmic Honors and Nobility Commission may occasionally receive… quiet input, if a noble is misusing mystic things. But the full nature of this Mandala need not be shouted from the gopurams."
The Finance Mahamantri looked resigned.
"At least I can hide their expenses inside 'temple restoration' and 'ritual materials'," he muttered. "If anyone complains that our culture budget is too large, I shall tell them our gods are particularly hungry."
Kaveri smiled."And if my children ask why so many stones are being blessed," she said, "I will tell them their father has taken up a new hobby."
Narasimha chuckled.
"If I ever start building temples for fun, stop me," he said. "I have enough to manage."
Rama Sastry dipped his pen in ink.
"Very well," he said. "We make it law. DCSHTA is born. To the world, it will manage festivals and manuscripts. To us, it will also guard against the things that slip between worlds."
He looked up, eyes meeting Narasimha's.
"And the Mandala of the Unseen," he added, "begins its watch."
III. Under the Palace, Old Names Stir
Two nights after the edict was proclaimed in the gazette—met with polite interest from priests and bored shrugs from traders—Venkanna led Narasimha down a stair that even most palace servants did not know existed.
The air grew cooler as they descended. Torches hissed softly, lighting carvings on the walls: old symbols of yugas, ancient yantras that had collected centuries of whispered prayers.
"This corridor," Narasimha said, running his fingers along a faded inscription, "I don't remember seeing it on the palace maps."
"That is because our ancestors had the good sense not to tell every visiting ambassador where they kept their secret councils," Venkanna replied. "Once, kings called gatherings of sages and guardians here when unusual omens troubled the realm. Then such gatherings stopped. The stones have been waiting."
They emerged into a vaulted chamber lit by lamps suspended on chains. Mats lay arranged in a circle. Around them sat six figures: old and young, male and female, their clothes simple, their eyes anything but.
Venkanna gestured.
"These," he said, "are the first of your Council of Siddhars and Temple Guardians."
Narasimha bowed deeply, setting aside his crown in the gesture, bowing simply as Narasimha, son of this soil.
An elderly woman with hair like white cotton clouds and eyes as sharp as a hawk's looked him up and down.
"So," she said, "this is the Lion who wrestles with demons and with budget meetings both."
"Both leave scars," Narasimha said gravely. "At least demons do not demand itemized ledgers."
A ripple of amusement moved around the circle.
"I am Mathangi," the woman said. "Once I guarded hill temples in the Western Ghats when Portuguese ships crowded our coastlines. Now I teach little girls to sing and scold men who forget that gods existed before their opinions."
A middle-aged man with a braided beard inclined his head.
"I am Swami Adinar," he said. "My lineage used to watch certain caves near Śrīśailam. We kept things inside that we wanted very much to never come out. These days, my nephews prefer to read newspapers from Calcutta and say the British will bring 'progress'. I am here to ensure 'progress' does not involve being eaten."
A younger woman in a plain sari smiled.
"And I am Savita," she said. "The first face of your Occult Bureau. To most, I will be a clerk taking notes on folk songs. To those who listen properly, I will be the one who reads the letters that begin with 'Strange things are happening in our village, please advise.'"
Narasimha sat among them, feeling the weight of their gazes and the strange sense that the room was slightly larger on the inside than the outside.
"We have named the outer shell," he said. "DCSHTA. We have signed the papers. But names alone do nothing. How will your Mandala work?"
Savita unfurled a scroll, pressing its corners with small stones that hummed faintly to Narasimha's senses.
"Not as a rigid ministry," she said, "but as a living circle with three main functions—three hands, if you will. One hand listens. One hand guards. One hand speaks. Each hand will have small teams spread across the Federation. They will coordinate with your existing organs—Rahasya Seva Mandal, army, local councils. They will also answer to this council and, when needed, to you."
Mathangi glanced at Narasimha.
"And you," she said, "will listen when we tell you that a canal must curve for reasons not visible on ordinary maps. Will you accept such advice, Maharaja? Or will you demand that everything fit into neat lines?"
Narasimha thought briefly of engineers and budgets. Then he thought of blood on village soil and the smell of sulphur.
"If you say, 'do not dig there, something sleeps', I will at least ask 'how deep?' before I argue," he said. "If my scribes complain my maps look crooked, I will tell them it is because they do not show everything."
Venkanna's eyes warmed.
"Then the circle can begin," he said.
IV. The Hand That Listens – Under the Label of "Folklore"
Upstairs, in a dusty building facing the Kesarinagara river, the signboard read: "DCSHTA – Section for Folk Traditions and Ritual Documentation." It was a mouthful. Most people shortened it to "that new culture office near the river" and only went there if they needed a form certified.
Inside, beyond a room stacked with palm-leaf manuscripts and bored clerks, a smaller chamber hummed with a different energy. Here, Savita sat cross-legged at a low desk, surrounded by letters.
Her assistant, a thin young man who had thought he was signing up to catalogue ritual songs, watched in fascination as she read aloud.
"'Respected Sarkar,'" she read, "'in our village, a strange light appears over the tank every Amavasya. Some say it is the goddess. Some say it is a British lantern. Please tell us if we should be afraid.'"
She tossed it into a pile marked "check on next patrol".
Another letter: "'My neighbour's mother-in-law is surely possessed. She throws vessels and curses all day. Please send exorcist or policeman.'"
This one she dropped into "probably human".
Narasimha, visiting incognito with a plain shawl over his shoulders, watched the sorting with bemusement.
"I had imagined skulls and maps of ley lines," he admitted. "Instead I see you deciding whether someone's mother-in-law is just cranky."
Savita smirked.
"Welcome to the Occult Bureau, Chakravartin," she said. "Eighty percent of our work is explaining to people that their well is contaminated, not haunted. Ten percent is stopping frauds from pretending to control spirits in exchange for goats. The remaining ten percent…" Her expression sobered. "Those cases we do not want to be real often are."
She handed him a letter.
"Read this," she said.
The script was neat, from a village priest near the western coast.
"To those in Kesarinagara who study rituals," it began. "Forgive my boldness. A stone fell from the sky last year. A noble from nearby acquired it, saying it is a śiva liṅga from the heavens. Since it arrived, children dream of a black river. Lamps near it flicker, even when there is no wind. Cows avoid the courtyard. We are told an English gentleman will soon pay much gold to take it to his country. I feel unease. Perhaps I am foolish. If so, forgive this letter. If not, please… look into this."
Narasimha remembered the prickle in his teeth when he had stood near the demon portal.
"This," he said softly, "is not a mother-in-law problem."
Savita nodded.
"Occult Bureau flags it," she said. "Relic Protection sees it. Rahasya Seva Mandal checks who this English gentleman is. Trinetra shadows anyone connecting them. We are the ear. The others are the hands and feet."
She flipped through more letters.
"Here," she said, "a complaint about a shrine stone that grows heavier every year. Here, reports of 'foreign men' asking villagers about 'old snake idols'. Here, whispers of a small cult in the hills reciting verses no one taught them. Most are nothing. Some are… threads."
"And you decide which ones to tug," Narasimha said.
She met his gaze.
"Yes," she said. "If we tug the wrong one, we waste time. If we ignore the right one, something crawls through while we are busy putting on our sandals."
He looked at the heaps of paper with new respect.
"May your work remain mostly boring," he said.
She smiled faintly.
"If it stays boring," she said, "our people will grow up thinking demons and portals are just stories. That will be a good sign."
V. The Hand That Guards – A Stone for the Vault
The letter about the meteor stone did not sit idle.
Within weeks, a team set out under the respectable banner of "DCSHTA Heritage Inspection". Their task looked simple enough on paper: catalogue temple items in the estate of a coastal noble, ensure proper care, offer recommendations.
On the journey, the Relic Protection Unit's captain, Drona Rao, joked with his men.
"Remember," he said, "we are polite civil servants. We speak softly, we smile, we do not shout 'demon stone!' in front of the household. If you feel something move that shouldn't, grip your mantra, not your sword."
Narasimha had joined them disguised as a junior official. He wore plain cotton, his aura wrapped tightly around him until he felt almost like any other man. Almost.
At the noble's estate, brass lamps gleamed, and silver bells chimed as servants bowed them in. The lord of the house, a portly man with intelligent eyes and slightly too much gold on his fingers, greeted them with a practised smile.
"I am honoured the Chak—" he caught himself, glancing at Narasimha, who thankfully kept his expression bland "—that Kesarinagara sends experts to see my modest collection."
Savita, playing the role of "scripture scholar", murmured pleasantries while her eyes scanned the altar spaces. Drona Rao's gaze was drawn, almost against his will, to a corner at the back, where a cloth draped over something pulsed faintly in his peripheral vision.
"May we see all your pieces?" Savita asked. "Especially anything acquired recently. New items sometimes need extra care."
The noble hesitated, fingers tapping against his thigh.
"Well," he said slowly, "there is one. A stone that fell from the sky. Some say it is a sign of blessing. An English antiquarian is very eager to study it. He offers… generous donation to the estate. But my priest is nervous. He keeps muttering about 'disturbed air'."
Narasimha felt his jaw clench.
"Let us look," he said mildly.
The cloth was lifted.
The stone beneath was no idol. It was irregular, small enough to sit on a man's lap, its surface matte black. Fine cracks ran across it like veins of darkness. The lamp flame beside it shivered though there was no draft. Narasimha felt a pressure in his ears, as if the room resented sound.
Drona Rao felt it too. The hairs on his arms rose.
"Curious piece," Savita said aloud, voice neutral. "Does it… do anything?"
"Oh, no, no," the noble said quickly. "Except for some nightmares here and there. And the cows refusing to cross the inner courtyard. But what is a little discomfort for such a rare object?"
As if in answer, the lamp behind the stone flared high, then went out, smoke trailing like a black tongue.
The noble's face drained of colour.
"On second thought," he whispered, "perhaps it is… too rare."
Narasimha stepped forward, letting just a fraction of his authority leak into his voice.
"By the authority of the Mandalic Dharmic Federation's heritage laws," he said, "this object must be moved to a secure vault in Kesarinagara. We will record it properly, study it safely, and assign appropriate honour to your estate. If we leave it here, and something goes wrong, I will have to explain to your people—and to mine—why I ignored a priest's unease. I do not enjoy those conversations."
The noble looked torn between greed and fear.
"And the Englishman?" he asked weakly. "He will be offended."
"The Englishman," Narasimha said, "may meditate upon his disappointment. If he complains, tell him your king demanded it for the greater good. They like that phrase in London: 'greater good'."
Relief flooded the noble's features.
"Yes, yes," he said. "For the greater good. Take it. Take it quickly."
That night, under the cover of a loud festival procession, the Relic Protection Unit moved the stone. From outside, villagers saw only a palanquin bearing a "special deity" leaving for "central consecration". Inside it, mantras hummed and a Kamar-Taj talisman glowed lightly, Yao's distant promise of watchful help woven into its lines.
In Kesarinagara, the stone descended into a newly carved underground chamber beneath the great temple—a Mandala Vault. The room's walls were etched with protective yantras from multiple traditions. Priests, mystics, and Kamar-Taj adepts had all contributed.
Narasimha watched through an observation slit as the stone was set on a pedestal surrounded by layered charms.
"What will we call this place?" he asked Venkanna.
"Officially," Venkanna said, "it is the 'Imperial Treasury of Sacred Artefacts'. In truth, it is where we put everything we never want to see in a British catalogue or a sorcerer's experiment."
Narasimha exhaled.
"May most of its shelves remain empty," he murmured.
"Child," Venkanna said dryly, "you have lived long enough to know the universe does not listen to such wishes. Better to pray that the shelves fill slowly, and that we are ready each time they do."
VI. The Hand That Speaks – A Road, a Tree, and a Deity
Not all Mandala work involved stones that wanted to swallow the light. Some involved frail human tempers and spirits insulted not by evil, but by neglect.
In the village of Kallur, a banyan tree grew at the main crossroads. Under its shade sat a rough stone smeared with vermillion—the gramadevata, the village's guardian spirit. For generations, people had lit lamps there, murmured quick prayers before heading to fields, whispered gratitude when pregnancies went well.
Then engineers arrived with maps and rulers and straight lines.
"The new road must go here," they said, drawing a line through the tree. "It will shorten travel, link markets. We can move the stone to the side. The tree… is inconvenient."
The older villagers balked. The younger ones, tempted by better prices for their grain, argued. Words like "backward" and "heartless" began to fly. Someone wrote a complaint to Kesarinagara. It landed on two desks: the Public Works Department and DCSHTA.
Public Works saw a road. DCSHTA saw an old promise about to be broken.
Thus, one hot afternoon, Damayanti of the Spirit Interaction Office arrived, adjusting the end of her sari and smiling at everyone as if she had come only to drink buttermilk.
She listened for hours.
To the engineer, who sighed that he respected gods but also had targets to meet and orders to follow.
To the old women, who whispered that ever since the measuring poles touched the banyan's roots, goats had fallen sick and children had begun to dream of wandering at night.
To the young men, who rolled their eyes at "superstition" but still avoided walking past the shrine alone at midnight.
As dusk painted the sky orange, Damayanti asked for everyone's permission to sit alone by the tree for some time.
Under its wide branches, she lit a small lamp, closed her eyes, and sang—a low, steady mantra that had nothing to do with legal codes and everything to do with the way subtle things listened.
The air around her thickened, then eased. A faint, familiar presence brushed her awareness: old, patient, slightly offended, like a grandfather ignored by grandchildren too busy with new toys.
She opened her eyes and smiled at the stone.
"I know," she murmured. "They forgot. They did not mean to spit on you; they simply let their minds fill with other worries. But if you throw tantrums by making cows sick, you will scare the wrong people. Let us talk."
Later, by the well, she gave her verdict.
"Your gramadevata is not against the road," she told the gathered villagers and the engineer. "He is against being treated like a stone left in the way. You may move his residence, but not like you move a broken cart. And not to a cramped corner where passing pigs splash him."
There were embarrassed coughs.
"So what do we do?" the engineer asked.
"You," Damayanti said, pointing at him, "will adjust your line. Two extra bends, one fewer dead buffalo spirit. You know how to calculate gradients; now calculate gratitude. And you"—she looked at the elders—"will build him a proper shrine at the new curve. When you carry the stone, you will walk barefoot, chant his name, and remember the times you ran here as children with scraped knees. Offer him lamps weekly, not just in crisis."
One old man frowned.
"And if we refuse?" he challenged. "If we say, 'no road'?"
Damayanti raised an eyebrow.
"Then your sons will curse you in ten years when they have to walk longer to sell their grain," she said. "The deity did not say 'no road'. He said 'no disrespect'. If you continue to confuse the two, you will make him as petty as you are. That would be a truly grave sin."
A few people laughed despite themselves. The engineer sighed.
"We can shift the alignment," he admitted. "I will need to explain it to my superiors."
"Blame me," Damayanti said cheerfully. "Write that the Department of Culture insists on protecting 'intangible heritage' and 'community harmony'. They love those words in Kesarinagara. No one will dare object too loudly."
By nightfall, the plan was set: a slightly curved road, a new shrine at its edge, a promise between villagers and spirit renewed.
In the DCSHTA files, the report read: "Community dispute over shrine relocation resolved; cultural and religious sensitivities accommodated." It did not mention the way the air around the new shrine felt… relieved.
To Narasimha, reading the report later, it was clear: this hand of the Mandala did not just prevent ghosts. It also prevented bureaucrats from accidentally angering the land itself.
VII. Old Lineages, New Oaths
The Mandala could not be staffed only by mysterious siddhars and a few clever clerks. It needed people rooted in villages and towns, people whose ancestors had once stood at thresholds with spears and mantras.
So Venkanna haunted not only corridors under the palace, but also its archives. He and a small team of historians and young scribes unrolled copper-plate grants, deciphered palm-leaf records, traced family names.
"See here," he told Narasimha one afternoon, pointing at a brittle document. "Three hundred years ago, a Rayalaseema king granted land to a family in exchange for guarding a hillside shrine 'against men and beings not of this world'. Today, that family runs a spice stall in your capital. They remember the grant, but not why their great-grandfather used to sleep better outdoors in storms than under a roof."
Narasimha traced the old script, feeling a strange tenderness.
"We call them back," he said. "If they are willing."
Letters went out across the Federation—personal, respectful, stamped with the imperial seal and DCSHTA's lotus.
"To the descendants of so-and-so," they said, "whose forefather once served as kṣetra-pālaka of such-and-such shrine. The Federation honours this memory. If you wish, we invite you to train in our new guardian corps. The duties are different in form, similar in spirit. You will receive stipend, training, and the gratitude of more people than you will ever meet."
Some recipients laughed and said their backs hurt enough as farmers.
Others came.
In Kesarinagara and regional centres, training grounds filled with a curious mix: former wrestlers, quiet scholars, village women who had grown up hearing ghost stories and wanted to make sure their children never starred in one. They learned to fight with staff and sword, to chant protection mantras, to read basic legal codes, to tell the difference between epilepsy and possession.
Narasimha made sure the oath they took was clear.
"You are not enforcers for one sect," he told them at a ceremony in a courtyard strung with marigolds. "You are guardians of places where heaven and earth brush: temples, shrines, certain groves, even some old wells. Your loyalty is to dharma, not to the loudest priest. If a temple committee tries to hide a crime behind a god's name, you will report it. If a British collector tries to buy a stone that hums strangely, you will stall. If something crawls out of a wall, you will hold the line until the Mandala arrives."
One young guardian raised her hand.
"And if something crawls out of a wall and speaks English?" she asked.
Laughter rippled.
"Then," Narasimha said, "try saying 'go back' in both languages. If that fails… run toward your nearest Mandala contact, not away."
They laughed again, but under the humour lay steel.
These kṣetra-pālakās would be the first to hear when things went wrong. They would also be the ones who quietly defused many problems before they ever turned into stories.
VIII. Threads: Rahasya, Trinetra, Mandala, Kamar-Taj
The deeper the Mandala wove its work, the more it touched other secret webs.
One evening, in a high chamber overlooking the western horizon, Narasimha sat with Sri, Savita, and Yao. The table between them bore three slim files.
Sri tapped the first.
"Our agents report an Englishman, Clarence Wetherby," she said. "Officially an antiquarian. He roams, collecting idols and 'folk curiosities'. Unofficially, he always seems to arrive near places where your Occult Bureau has marked 'potential anomaly' on their maps."
Savita opened her file.
"He has inquired about serpent idols in three temples, that meteor stone we just moved, and even an old pillar from an abandoned shrine near the Nizam's territory," she said. "Our field reports mention a strange prickling sense when he enters a room. Not quite demonic. Not quite normal. I used the phrase 'significant ritual residue' in my report because it sounds less worrying to the Ministry."
Narasimha opened the third file, plain and unmarked.
"Trinetra tracks a Portuguese sailor he meets in Goa," he read. "This sailor has carried messages for East India Company men before. Recently, he also carried a letter to someone connected with a group our future historians will curse: Hydra."
The foreign name tasted oily.
"So," he said. "We have a curious Englishman who wants our dangerous stones, a strange aura, and possible Hydra links. I miss the days when my enemies only wanted my land."
Yao, leaning against the window, arms folded, spoke for the first time.
"Kamar-Taj has noticed him too," she said. "He has read pages he should not read. Some of those pages stare back. If he keeps walking down that path, he will either become a problem… or a corpse."
Narasimha rubbed his forehead.
"Is he yours to deal with, or mine?" he asked.
"Both," Yao said simply. "When Western fools meddle with very old Indian stones, we have overlapping jurisdiction."
Savita frowned.
"If we remove him," she said, "we will only tell his shadowy friends that there is something worth killing for here."
Sri nodded.
"Better to turn him into a blind cat chasing shadows," she said. "We can feed him false leads, carefully. Let him waste years studying harmless pieces while the real artifacts sleep under your vaults."
Narasimha looked from one to the other.
"Then it is settled," he said. "Rahasya will shadow his contacts. Trinetra will watch the money. Mandala will continue securing anything that hums or pulses. Kamar-Taj will watch from above, ready to slam a door if he accidentally finds one."
Yao's lips twitched.
"And when he finally writes his book," she said, "it will be titled something like 'Curious Stones of the Orient' and all the truly dangerous ones won't be in it."
Narasimha grinned.
"In that case," he said, "I look forward to reading it and laughing in my beard."
IX. Circles in the Garden
For all the seriousness of demons and stones, the Mandala's story would not be complete without a scene in which it met the part of Narasimha that was not king, not soldier, but husband and father.
In the inner gardens of Kesarinagara, Kaveri poured tea as their children, Rudrama Devi and Rajendra, practiced mock duels with wooden swords. When a golden circle of sparks opened near the jasmine bushes, both children froze, then squealed.
Yao stepped through, cloak swirling, bald head gleaming faintly in the sun.
"Again with the portals," Narasimha groaned. "My guards will develop heart problems."
"If they cannot handle one portal in a royal garden," Yao said, "they will have trouble when real trouble knocks."
Rudrama rushed forward, eyes bright.
"You!" she cried. "You are the one who fought the demon with Nana! Show me the circle! Show me the circle!"
Rajendra nodded fervently.
"And the time spell!" he added. "And the thing where you pushed it back into the hole!"
Kaveri laughed into her hand.
"Welcome, Yao," she said warmly. "Come. Sit. If you teach my children too many dangerous things, at least do it on a full stomach."
Yao accepted a cup, inhaling its aroma.
"Better hospitality than at Kamar-Taj," she observed. "There, they give you tea only if you have survived at least one magical catastrophe."
Rudrama stared at her head, fascinated.
"Why are you bald?" she blurted.
Narasimha choked.
"Rudrama!" he hissed.
Yao only smiled.
"Excellent question," she said. "Three reasons. One, hair is a liability when you fight things that like to grab. Two, it makes me look much more serious than I sometimes feel. Students are more afraid of a bald teacher. Enemies too. Three, in a place full of apprentices learning fire spells, it is wise not to carry extra fuel on your head."
Kaveri burst out laughing.
"That," she said, "is the most practical mystical explanation I have heard."
Rajendra looked thoughtful.
"Nana," he whispered, "do you think if I shave my head, the ministers will be more scared of me?"
"No," Narasimha said firmly.
"Yes," Yao said at the same time.
They exchanged a look and both started laughing.
As the sun dipped, the conversation turned more serious. Yao walked with Narasimha along the path, watching the children play from a distance.
"The Mandala you are building," she said, "it is not just for your lifetime. The barriers around old Indian lokas are thinning in small ways. Your rebirth, your empire, your constitution—these are not isolated events. They are part of a larger pattern."
"Good pattern or bad?" Narasimha asked.
"Both," Yao said honestly. "Power returning also means old grudges stirring. Your Mandala will face things my order does not even have names for, because they are tied to this land's stories, not to ours. You will need to remember, in those days, that you are not only a king with a sword. You are a guardian who can say 'no' to both men and spirits."
He looked at his children, then up at the sky, where stars would soon appear.
"They will inherit it," he said quietly. "Not the crown, necessarily. That may pass through elections and dharmic mandates. But this world… the strange one. They will walk in it more than I will. I had centuries to grow into this. They will have less."
Yao followed his gaze.
"Then the best gift you can give them," she said, "is a system that does not depend on one man's strength. You are doing that. Mandala. Constitution. Dharmic Honors Commission to slap nobles who misbehave. Kamar-Taj will stand with you when our circles overlap. After that, it is up to them."
"For a bald woman, you are very comforting," Narasimha murmured.
"For an immortal lion, you are very dramatic," she retorted.
They smiled, and for a moment, the weight of portals and politics felt lighter.
Far above, in a place where stars looked like lotus lamps on dark water, the Trimurti and Tridevi watched without intervening. They saw their first-born soul—as flawed, stubborn, and soft-hearted as they had always known him to be—building, layer by layer, a net to catch the things that fell through cracks no one else could see.
From this year onward, when strange winds blew in holy places, when merchants whispered of stones that made lamps shiver, when villagers dreamt the same nightmare, there were people in Bharat who did not shrug and say "fate," but reached quietly for files stamped with very boring words.
Behind those stamps, the Mandala of the Unseen watched, listened, and moved.
✦ End of Chapter 54 – "The Mandala of the Unseen" ✦