✵ I. The Soul Falls, and the World Notices
Long before the villagers of Uyyalawada lit their lamps that evening, something else lit the sky—far above human sight.
The small soul that the Trimurti and Tridevi had blessed, the one once almost a Manu and now destined for another kind of greatness, crossed the subtle boundary into the chosen universe. It did not roar like a meteor. It did not tear the heavens.
It arrived like a quiet spark, wrapped in a warmth no mortal eye could see.
Yet the world felt it.
❖
In a place far away from India, on snow-peaked mountains where the wind carried mantras older than empires, a circle of robed figures sat in meditation. Their place was not yet called famous by mortals, but it would be: a sanctum where Earth's mystic defenders trained.
One elderly sorcerer, his eyes closed, suddenly inhaled sharply.
A thread of golden light streaked across his inner vision, piercing through the web of probabilities like a needle through cloth.
"What is it?" another asked in a low voice.
"I do not know," the elder replied, palms slowly turning upward. "But something… has entered the stream. A presence. Human, yet not entirely. Its fate… is heavily guarded. I cannot look too deep."
Above them, unnoticed, a faint glyph formed in the air and dissolved—the barest whisper of the Vishanti's attention.
❖
Far above even them, beyond the star-splashed velvet of night, a colossal, slumbering awareness stirred.
A Celestial, whose gaze usually swept only across galaxies and civilizations, felt a small itch at the edge of its perception. A local disturbance. A deviation from the expected branching of timelines.
It did not intervene.
But it turned its gaze—just slightly—toward a shining blue world.
❖
On that world, in a time when the British crown weighed heavy upon the Indian subcontinent, in the stony heartlands of the south, a small region called Rayalaseema slept beneath the setting sun.
As the soul descended, the dry winds slowed.The heat eased.And somewhere, a pregnant woman woke from a dream with tears on her face.
❖ II. The Land of Stone, Dust, and Pride
Rayalaseema did not possess the lush, overflowing rivers of the north, nor the endless emerald fields of the delta regions. It was a land of stone and sun, of rocky hills and scrub, of dry riverbeds waiting hungrily for monsoon clouds.
But it had its own beauty.
Red earth baked hard under the sun. Thorny bushes clung to life with stubbornness. Palm trees stood like silent sentinels against the sky. Villages gathered around tanks and wells, their houses of mud and stone pressed close like families in winter.
In one corner of this land stood a cluster of villages whose people spoke of themselves with a particular pride:
Uyyalawada.
Here, over generations, one family had acted as chieftains—protectors, judges, leaders.
They held no grand royal title recognized by European maps. But to the farmers who bowed to them in paddy fields, to the herders who brought their disputes about grazing land, to the women who came trembling with tales of injustice, the Uyyalawada family were kings enough.
❖
At the edge of one such village, not far from a line of rocky hills, stood the chieftain's house. It was not a palace, but it was larger than the other houses, its walls painted with lime, its courtyard wide enough to gather the elders of many hamlets.
Inside, the smell of incense mingled with sweat and turmeric. Lamps flickered in front of framed images of deities—Rama with his bow, Krishna with his flute, Narasimha roaring from a pillar, Durga atop her lion.
In an inner room, a woman lay on a simple wooden cot, one hand resting on her swollen belly.
She had woken from a dream.
She had seen a lion walking through fire, its mane bright as molten gold, its paws leaving no ash behind. She had seen six lights descend together, swirl around the lion, and condense into a small child with eyes like a storm waiting to happen.
When she woke, her heart was hammering, and tears had escaped before she even knew why.
"Amma," an older woman murmured, adjusting the oil lamp. "What is it?"
The pregnant woman—Uyyalawada's chieftain's wife—wiped her cheeks quickly, as if ashamed to be seen crying.
"I… I am all right, Attamma," she said quietly. "A dream, that is all."
The older woman gave her a knowing look."About your child?"
The younger woman hesitated, then nodded.
"The gods will not show fearful omens for a child of our house," the elder said firmly. "Narasimha Swami himself protects this land. Sleep. Your time is near."
But sleep did not come easily.
Outside, the last rays of the sun sank behind the hills. Shadows lengthened.
And a different kind of shadow moved nearby.
✢ III. The Collector's Stick
Not far from the chieftain's house, under a large banyan tree, a group of villagers stood in a tense circle.
Some wore rough white dhotis. Some had cloth torn at the edges. Their ribs showed through their skin. Their eyes were dark, tired, and angry.
Opposite them stood a group of men in red coats and turbans—the local Company sepoys and officials. One English officer, thin and pale, sat stiffly on a chair that had been brought for him, a notebook in his hand.
A translator stood at his side.
"I say again," the officer's voice droned in accented, impatient Telugu filtered through the translator, "tax is law. You will pay."
A farmer, his back bent from years in the field, pressed his hands together."Sahib, the rains failed," he said. "Two seasons. We barely have enough grain to feed our families. If we pay full tax, we will starve."
The translator softened the words slightly when he relayed them.
The officer's expression did not change."I have my instructions," he said. "If you cannot pay coin, you will give grain. If not grain, land. If not land… bodies can work."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Where is your chieftain?" the officer asked suddenly. "The… what is his name… Ula—Uyyala—"
"Uyyalawada Dora is at home, Sahib," the translator replied. "His wife is in labour. It is an auspicious day. He is with her."
The officer snorted."Births and omens," he muttered in English. "Always births and omens with these people."
He looked at the gathered villagers again and gestured to one sepoy.
"Take one."
The sepoy hesitated. "Sahib, take one…?"
The officer's lips thinned."Beat one. The rest will understand."
The murmur became a protest.Men stepped forward. Women cried out. Children clung to their mothers' saris.
A young boy, perhaps ten, trembled as a sepoy grabbed his arm.
Before the stick fell, a firm voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough."
All heads turned.
The chieftain of Uyyalawada walked into the circle—not in silk, not with a crown, but in a simple, clean dhoti and angavastram, his posture straight, his jaw tight.
His eyes, however, were carefully calm.
"Collector Sahib," he said in measured Telugu, "forgive us. Word did not reach me that you had come to the village."
The officer's expression loosened slightly at the appearance of someone who seemed to have authority.
"Ah. The local lord," he said, in that tone that acknowledged and dismissed at once. "We were discussing tax."
"I see," the chieftain said. His gaze moved quickly over his people, then back to the officer. "Today is a day of birth in my house. Let there be no blows in the village."
He stepped forward."If an example must be made, let it be of me. I am responsible for these people."
The officer raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
The sepoys shifted.
For a moment, the air was thick with a possible brutality.
Then the officer smiled thinly."You speak our ways too well, Dora," he said, using the local term in a clipped accent. "No need for drama. Tax is tax. You will ensure it is collected. Yes?"
The chieftain inclined his head."Yes."
"And if it is not?"
"Then you may take from my house first," the chieftain said quietly.
Behind him, some villagers made faint, distressed sounds. The officer watched him, then laughed once.
"Very noble," he said. "Very… local king." He stood. "I will return in three weeks. I expect to see numbers improved."
He turned, gestured, and the red-coated column moved away, dust rising around their boots.
The villagers exhaled, some in relief, some in new anxiety.
The chieftain watched the dust cloud for a moment, then turned back toward his house, his shoulders heavy.
Behind him, unseen, a small child yet unborn shifted inside his mother's womb.
✶ IV. A Night Written in Omens
That night, Rayalaseema's sky was unusually clear.
Stars burned sharp. The moon hung bright and round over the rocky hills. Dogs that had been barking all evening suddenly quieted. For a brief, strange moment, the village's usual layers of sound—crickets, distant bells, murmured conversations—fell away.
In the house of the Uyyalawada chieftain, the air was thick with incense and worry.
The midwife wiped sweat from her brow and called for more hot water."Hold on, Amma," she said firmly. "You have borne pain before. This one… this one will be worth it."
The chieftain's wife gritted her teeth, gripping the sides of the cot. Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes, but there was something like fierce joy there too.
"Na… rasimha…" she whispered, "be with me…"
Outside, in the courtyard, the chieftain paced, sandals scraping the stone. His mother sat near the door, murmuring prayers under her breath.
"Why has it become so quiet suddenly?" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone.
His mother paused mid-chant, noticing it too now.The usual night-sounds seemed distant, as if wrapped in cotton.
Then the wind changed.
It rose up from nowhere, swirling through the courtyard, shaking the lamp flames but not extinguishing them. The tulasi plant near the steps swayed wildly. The bells in the small shrine at the far end of the yard rang once—clear and bright—without anyone touching them.
The chieftain stopped walking.
His mother's eyes widened."Narasimha Swami…" she whispered.
Across the village, similar small disturbances occurred.
A lamp in the local temple flickered high, as if someone had blown life into it.A cow about to low in complaint suddenly quieted, then knelt gently, as if in reverence.A small child who had been crying from a fever suddenly stopped, blinking wide-eyed at something only she could see.
And above, in the sky, a single shooting star traced a slow, bright arc across the night.
❖
Inside the house, the pregnant woman cried out one last time. The sound was raw but victorious.
Then another sound filled the small room.
A baby's cry—clear, strong, not shrill but resonant, like a conch's first note.
The midwife laughed, joy pouring out of her."Amma! It is a boy!"
The elder mother outside let out a sob of relief and delight."A boy," she repeated under her breath. "A boy in Narasimha's name…"
The chieftain exhaled in a rush and bowed his head, hands pressed together. For a moment, he said nothing out loud, but his thoughts were very clear:
If this child lives, if he grows strong… let him be shield to our people.
❖
Far above, in the high forgotten sanctum of the sorcerers, the meditating elder trembled again.
"There it is," he murmured. "A convergence point. In the south… in a land of stone and dust. A soul… touched deeply by something that is not of our order."
One of his students frowned."Is it a threat, Master?"
The elder shook his head slowly."No. If anything, perhaps a shield. But shields can change battles as surely as swords."
He lifted his face slightly."In any case, the Vishanti watch it. We need not pry more, for now."
❖
On a distant hilltop in India itself, a lone figure stood—draped not in cloth, but in something that looked like starlight pretending to be silk.
An immortal, who had watched humanity for centuries, narrowed her eyes as she stared toward the south.
"A node just shifted," she murmured, half to herself. "Interesting."
Then she smiled faintly."Let us see what you become, little one."
❖
Back in the Uyyalawada house, the midwife cleaned the newborn and handed him gently to his mother.
He was small, red, wrinkled—like all newborns—and yet as she looked at him, the mother's heart gave a strange lurch. His eyes were not fully open yet, but when they fluttered, there was a depth there that startled her.
She pulled him close, kissed his forehead, and whispered,"Narasimha…"
Behind her, the older woman nodded approvingly."Yes. Narasimha Reddy. Let that be his name."
The child, as if approving, quieted in her arms.
For a second, he stared not at the wall, nor the ceiling, but at the space just above them, where unseen threads of destiny pulsed.
Then his small hand curled into a fist, and he slept.
✹ V. The Child with Storm in His Silence
Infancy blurred quickly, as it always does.
To the villagers, Narasimha Reddy was first just "the Dora's boy"—healthy, loud when he wanted milk, surprisingly calm when the house was full of noise. He rarely woke up crying from sudden sounds. Loud voices, arguing elders, the metallic clink of weapons being cleaned—none of it truly startled him.
But sometimes, the smallest things made him go quiet.
Once, when he was barely a few months old, his mother carried him out into the courtyard at dusk. The sky was streaked with orange and purple, and the first stars were beginning to shine.
A flock of birds flew overhead, shifting direction mid-flight, their wings beating in unison. The baby's gaze followed them, and he went utterly still—no wriggle, no babble.
"What is it?" his mother whispered, more to herself.
As if in answer, a feeling settled over her—not a voice, not a thought, but a sense:
He listens.
When men gathered in the courtyard to speak of crops and taxes, of British demands and their own worries, Narasimha did not fuss or cry when brought along. He would lie there, eyes half-closed, as if asleep… until a certain topic rose.
The first time they truly noticed, a neighboring village headman had come to speak of a new tax demand.
"They will not leave even seed grain for us," the man said bitterly. "If we give them all they demand, our children will starve."
As he spoke, his voice trembled between anger and fear.
The baby, lying in his mother's lap nearby, went from drowsy sucking on his fingers… to absolute stillness.
His tiny brows furrowed.
His eyes, dark and unusually focused for an infant, shifted toward the man's voice.
He did not cry.He simply looked—and the man who had been on the edge of despair suddenly felt his chest ease, just a fraction, as if a hand had rested there and said without words: I am listening.
The mother noticed.
She stroked his hair once, murmuring softly,"You hear more than you should, little one."
❖
Animals reacted strangely to him.
The family cow, old and known to be stubborn, tolerated very few people near her when she was in a foul mood. Yet when Narasimha was set down near her stable as a toddler, she sniffed the air once, then sank slowly to her knees and remained there, chewing grass calmly as he tottered toward her.
He placed one small palm against her flank, eyes wide.
The cow exhaled, a long, slow breath, as if something inside her had relaxed.
"Hmm," the old banyan tree–sitting elder of the village muttered one afternoon, watching. "That is not ordinary."
The local temple priest, an old man with thin hair and sharp eyes, noticed too.
During one festival, the chieftain brought his son to the temple. The place was crowded, full of oil lamps, marigold garlands, the smell of camphor and ghee. The idol of Narasimha Swami on the inner altar glowed in flickering light, garlanded with flowers and flanked by oil lamps.
Most toddlers either shrank back in fear at the fierce lion-faced deity or stared in simple confusion.
Narasimha Reddy… stared back.
For a long moment, child and stone image looked at one another.
Then the boy's lips twitched.
Not into a full smile—he was still too small—but into something like recognition.
The priest's breath caught.
Later, when the family left, he called the chieftain aside."Dora," he said quietly, "this boy of yours… his horoscope already spoke of unusual things. But after today, I will say this much: his birth is not small news in the heavens."
The chieftain's mouth tightened with mixed pride and unease."What does that mean, Swami?"
"It means," the priest replied, "that devas who usually look at kings and rishis are glancing this way as well. Guard him carefully. Not only men's eyes will be on him."
✪ VI. Lessons in Stone and Shadow
By the time Narasimha reached three and four years of age, his world had grown beyond his mother's lap and the house courtyard.
He learned the feel of the dry earth under his bare feet. He tasted dust on his tongue when he fell. He listened to elders under the banyan tree. He watched his father.
His father, the chieftain, was not just a figurehead. Every few days, people came to their house with disputes: land boundaries, cattle thefts, water turns from the tank.
Narasimha was not yet old enough to understand the words. But he understood voices.
One afternoon, he sat in a corner of the courtyard, a small wooden lion in his hand—carved for him by a village carpenter. His legs swung idly as two men argued before his father.
"He let his goats into my field!" one shouted."There was no fence! The goats strayed!" the other retorted.
The chieftain listened, then asked questions quietly, pulling not just facts, but tone. Finally, he gave a judgement: part compensation, part warning, no one fully satisfied but no one destroyed.
Narasimha's toy stopped swinging.
He stared at his father's profile—the calm way he held his shoulders, the way his eyes flickered between anger and fear in others, never letting either infect his own.
His young mind did not yet have the words, but a seed lodged itself there:
This is what it means to stand between two fires.
❖
Sometimes, when no one watched, he climbed the small rise behind their house and stared at the rocky horizon.
In the far distance, to the east, faint smoke sometimes rose from a British outpost, where flags he had seen only from afar fluttered. Once, he had seen men in red coats marching like lines of ants.
He had not yet understood what they were.
But whenever that direction caught his gaze, a strange tightness formed in his chest. His small hands curled without meaning to.
He did not know the word "anger" yet.But he felt something like it.
⚔ VII. Shadows of the Company
One evening, when Narasimha was around four years old, a Company horseman arrived at their gates with a folded paper and an expression that reminded the chieftain of vultures.
Narasimha watched from behind a pillar as his father took the letter, read it, and his jaw slowly clenched.
"What is it, Swami?" his wife asked later, when they were alone. Narasimha lay on the floor nearby, pretending to play with his lion while his ears strained.
"The taxes," his father said quietly. "They want more. They call it 'adjustment to revenue'."
"But didn't you just—?"
His father exhaled harshly."They raise and raise. The soil gives what it can, the sky gives what it will. But the paper demands more, always more."
There was a pause.
"Will you tell them no?" she asked carefully.
Narasimha peeked up, curious at the hint of challenge in her tone.
The chieftain smiled, but it was a tired smile.
"Tell whom no, exactly?" he asked. "The sepoys with guns? The officer who can jail village heads? The man who writes lists in a language we do not even read?"
His wife's shoulders drooped.
Narasimha watched the way his father's hand closed slowly over the letter. The paper crinkled, but he did not tear it.
Again, that feeling in the child's chest—the wanting to hit something he could not see.
Something lodged itself deep in him that evening.
He would not remember the conversation when he grew older in exact words, but the shape of it—the frustration, the helplessness, the slow anger—would never leave.
❖
Across the region, other British eyes had also begun to notice something peculiar about Uyyalawada and its neighbors.
Reports from junior officers spoke of:
"Villages under this local chief show unusually consistent resistance to revenue exploitation."
"Subjects display strong loyalty to their Dora."
"Rumours in bazaars compare him to a 'lion' of Rayalaseema."
One such report landed in the hands of a man whose assignment was not just to collect tax, but to note… anomalies.
He read the last part twice.
A lion, is it? he thought dryly. We shall see.
He did not know the child's name.Not yet.But he would.
✦ VIII. Prophecy in the Temple Courtyard
That year, during one temple festival, a wandering siddhar came to the village.
He was thin, with matted hair piled atop his head, ash smeared on his forehead, eyes that were at once clouded and piercing. He sat beneath a tree near the temple, humming to himself, occasionally laughing at nothing visible.
Children circled him at a distance.
Adults watched with curiosity mixed with caution. Wandering ascetics were not unusual—but sometimes, a true one came along.
When the chieftain's family came to the temple for the main puja, the siddhar's gaze snapped sharply toward them.
More precisely—toward the boy holding his mother's hand.
Narasimha clung to his mother's sari with one hand and his wooden lion with the other. His eyes flitted to the siddhar once, then again, as if something in the man's presence vibrated at a frequency he recognized.
The priest noticed the siddhar staring and approached him after the puja."Swami," he said respectfully, "you look at the Dora's son as if you see something."
The siddhar chuckled."I see many things, Archaka. Most of them are none of my business."
He fell quiet, then added,"But this boy… his business will become many people's business one day."
The priest's eyebrows rose."Can you speak more clearly, Swami?"
The siddhar considered, then shook his head."If I say too much, threads tighten. Let it be enough that I say: he is one whose death… will not come easily."
The priest frowned."Swami, do you mean he will live long, or—?"
"Long or short, that depends on rivers not yet dug," the siddhar replied enigmatically. "But there are souls who walk toward death, and there are souls who death itself must ask permission from. This one… is of the second kind."
He tapped his chest with a gnarled finger."I have seen such a boon before—in tales. I did not expect to smell its fragrance in a village boy."
The priest's heart thudded."Like… Bhishma Pitamaha?" he whispered.
The siddhar's eyes flickered."There are patterns in this universe," he said softly. "Old templates. Someone has… reused one. With changes."
He looked up at the sky.
For a moment, his expression lost all madness and became simply tired.
"Let us hope," he murmured, "that this time, the pattern ends with less blood."
✹ IX. Other Eyes, Other Worlds
As Narasimha turned five, his senses sharpened.
He still looked like a child—thinner after summers of fierce heat, hair falling into his eyes, knees scraped from climbing stones. But inwardly, something hummed steadily.
He dreamed often.
Not always in images he could later describe. Sometimes he woke with a memory of standing in a place that was not quite earth, speaking to figures he could not completely see.
Once, he dreamed of standing in front of a vast ocean—not of water, but of stars. A woman made of golden light and a man whose face shifted between many forms watched him.
"Walk well," a voice said—not with words, but with a feeling like a hand on his shoulder.
When he woke, the morning light streaming onto his face, his mother thought he had simply slept deeply. She kissed his forehead and told him to wash up.
He said nothing of the dream.He did not have words for it anyway.
❖
Far away, in that high sanctum, the elder sorcerer watched a map of light-lines representing Earth's fate. One line pulsed a bit more strongly—threading through a region in south India.
"Still bright," he murmured. "Still… uncertain, but stable."
A younger sorcerer frowned."Master, should we initiate contact?"
"Not yet," the elder replied. "The world has many fires. Some must first grow by their own fuel."
He glanced toward a shelf where old scrolls mentioned Rayalaseema, ancient gateways, relics hidden in stone temples."Besides," he added, "his story is not only ours to observe."
❖
Deep in a hidden city carved into rock in a far corner of the world, beings not quite human, not quite god, whose history stretched back further than human records, also noted subtle anomalies.
An Eternal, browsing through readings of global energy fluctuations, paused at a particular spike.
"Increase in localized destiny density," the device recorded.Location: South India.Classification: Potential nexus.
She frowned, thought for a moment, then stored the data.
"Watch," she marked in the log. "No interference… yet."
✧ X. The Quiet Before the Roar
By the end of his fifth year, Narasimha Reddy's world had grown enough to include:
the shape of his father's shadow as it fell across courtyard stone,
the taste of cool well-water after long runs under the sun,
the harshness in the voices of British officers when they visited,
the exhausted hope in the eyes of villagers when they came to his house.
He had not yet held a weapon in his hand.He had not yet seen blood spill in front of him in battle.He had not yet spoken the words that would one day set a region on fire.
But the seeds were already there.
He watched his father take on burdens that rightfully belonged to the Company.He watched villagers bow low for relief that came late and incomplete.He watched red coats pass by, their owners barely bothering to look at the brown faces they passed.
And each time, something inside him coiled a little tighter.
His mother watched him from a distance sometimes, her expression half-proud, half-afraid.
"He looks too serious, for such a small boy," she murmured once to her mother-in-law.
"He has his father's eyes," the older woman said. "And something else as well."
"What something else?"
The old woman looked up at the sky before answering.
"A lion's patience," she said simply. "And a lion's anger, if pushed."
High above, in Vaikuntha, the Trimurti and Tridevi did not watch every moment of his life. They had countless other matters to attend.
But sometimes, when his small fists curled in silent anger at injustice he could not yet name, when his dreams brushed the edges of their presence, when his laughter rose despite all burdens around him—
a goddess's heart would soften,a god's attention would linger just a little longer.
And somewhere in the threads of fate, a lion—made not of flesh but of will—stretched, testing its limbs.
The boy who would become an Immortal Chieftain, who would one day stand against empires and cosmic forces alike, still had milk on his lips and dust on his knees.
For now, the world called him only:
Narasimha Reddy, the Dora's son.
But Destiny, watching from all sides, had already begun to whisper another name in secret places:
The Silent Lion of the South.
And on the wind above Rayalaseema, something smiled.