✵ I. When Games Turned into Lessons
By the time Narasimha Reddy crossed from five to six, the village had quietly decided something about him:
"Dora's boy is always seeing."
Not just looking. Seeing.
He watched shadows on faces when tax was mentioned.
He watched how laughter thinned when someone said "Company officer is coming."
He watched where grain sacks were kept, who had to borrow, who lent loudly and who lent silently.
He also watched for any chance to escape work.
"Come, kanna," his mother called one morning, "help your uncle measure grain. If you are to be Dora, you must know how much food your people have."
He flopped onto the floor as if struck.
"Amma," he groaned, "why are you so eager to make me into an old man? Let me be small. Small boys should only count mangoes, not grain."
His grandmother snorted.
"If you count only mangoes, you will eat them all and starve in winter," she said. "Up. The land does not care that you are five."
Despite the drama, he went.
He always went.
Grumbling, muttering under his breath, but his eyes stayed open and sharp while his hands moved clumsily over grain and weights.
He complained about the labour.
But he remembered the numbers.
❖ II. Walking the Fields
The first time his father took him to walk the fields like a grown heir, the sun was only a faint glow on the horizon.
"Why so early?" Narasimha mumbled, stumbling, hair mussed. "Even the gods are still yawning."
"They wake earlier than you," his father said dryly. "And the land does not sleep just because you want to."
They walked out past the last houses, past the well, into the far fields.
Rayalaseema's earth lay open before them:
Cracked patches where the rain had not yet truly soaked.
Greener places where small tanks fed water stubbornly.
Thin lines of tender crop, trying their best.
Farmers straightened when they saw the chieftain and his son.
"Dora," they said respectfully, hands joining.
Narasimha nodded back, trying to look like he had not been dragged out of bed.
His father crouched near a clump of plants and ran soil through his fingers.
"See this, Narasimha," he said. "Last year, they sowed early because the clouds came early. Then the clouds ran away. Half the crop died. This year, they delayed. The clouds delayed too. The field is always at someone's mercy."
"Whose?" Narasimha asked, frowning. "Sky's?"
"Yes," his father answered. "And also the Company's."
He pointed toward the distant road, where sometimes dust would rise as British patrols passed.
"If the crop fails," he said quietly, "the farmer suffers. If the crop thrives, the Company raises revenue. Either way, they keep taking."
Narasimha's jaw tightened.
"So if the sky is unfair and the Company is unfair," he muttered, "then someone has to be… more fair. Or everyone falls down."
His father glanced at him, surprised by the phrasing.
"Exactly," he said softly. "That 'someone' is supposed to be us."
Narasimha stared at the thin line of crop, the way it shivered when the light wind passed over it.
He did not yet know about trade networks, foreign allies, or steampunk railroads he would one day build.
But a sentence rooted itself in him:
If the sky and the Company both push down, I must at least keep people from being crushed flat.
He looked at his father, then at the villagers.
"Appa," he asked suddenly, "when the British say, 'we need more revenue,' who checks if their need is true? Who tells them 'enough'?"
His father smiled grimly.
"Right now?" he said. "No one."
"Then one day," Narasimha muttered, half to himself, "I'll learn to say it."
✢ III. The Market of Many Tongues
Once a week, a small market gathered where three dusty paths met near Uyyalawada.
It was no great city bazaar, just:
farmers with extra grain,
women with surplus curd and pickles,
potters with their wares,
traders with cloth, salt, jaggery, iron tools, and gossip from half a dozen regions.
For Narasimha, it was a classroom louder than any guru's.
His mother tried to keep him away at first.
"Crowds, dust, strangers," she listed. "You will get lost. Or stolen."
"Who will steal me?" he protested. "They will return me in one day after I complain about work."
Still, one morning, after enough pleading and promises and a stern look from his father, he was allowed to go with an escort.
"Stay with Ramu," his father ordered. "You go where he goes. You come back when he says. Understood?"
"Yes, Appa," Narasimha said solemnly.
Five minutes into the market, he was already pulling away to look at everything.
Voices tangled in the air.
Men shouted prices.
Women haggled.
Coins clinked, grain rustled, cows lowed, goats bleated.
He watched two men argue over the price of salt.
"You are stealing from me!" one shouted.
"You think carrying this from the coast is free?" the trader retorted. "Look at my bull, do you know how much it eats?"
Narasimha tugged at Ramu's hand.
"Why is his price higher than last month?" he asked. "Did the sea become more expensive?"
Ramu fought a smile.
"Not the sea, kanna," he said. "Sometimes the road becomes more dangerous. More dacoits, more bribes to officials. Or sometimes, traders just take advantage when people are desperate."
"Hmm," Narasimha grunted, eyes narrowing. "So there are three thieves: dacoits, corrupt officers, and traders who think they are clever."
Ramu coughed, half afraid someone had heard, but the market noise swallowed the comment.
❖
He watched a potter sell his wares.
"How much for this?" one woman asked, lifting a pot.
"Four ana," the potter replied.
"Last month it was three."
"Last month your neighbour bought two," he said. "You buy one. I cannot eat half my meal."
Narasimha stepped forward without thinking.
"What if we bring you five customers?" he asked, eyes bright. "Will you sell for three and a half to all?"
The woman and the potter both blinked.
"Who are you, little merchant?" the woman asked, amused.
Ramu hissed, "Narasimha…"
The boy continued, unbothered.
"If more people buy, your total grows," he said to the potter. "If fewer buy at high price, you sit with unsold pots and no money. Better small gain from many than big gain from none."
The potter blinked again, then laughed.
"All right," he said. "If you bring me five buyers, I'll drop the price a little. Let's see if your tongue is as sharp as your words."
Narasimha grinned.
Ten minutes later, through a combination of enthusiastic recommendation ("This pot is strong! If it breaks, I will come and hit him myself!") and childish charm, he had indeed dragged five women to the stall.
The potter narrowed his eyes—then kept his word.
The women walked away pleased. The potter shook his head, half annoyed, half impressed.
"What will you be, ra?" he muttered. "Dora or trader?"
Narasimha just smiled.
"Both," he said. "Otherwise, how will I keep my people and my house full at same time?"
Ramu, watching all this, muttered to himself:
"As if one Dora is not enough. Now we will have one who counts every coin also."
✶ IV. Counting What Others Ignored
He did not just watch prices.
He watched patterns.
He noted that:
cloth from certain traders always arrived with British escorts,
iron tools moved along the same route as Company gunpowder,
one particular merchant asked too many questions about wells, grain stores, and how much the chieftain's house held in reserve.
One evening, back on the rooftop, he sat with his father again.
"Appa," he said, "today in the market I saw a man with red-thread bracelet but Company boots. He asked Rangaiah how much grain we keep underground."
His father's eyes sharpened.
"Did he say why?" he asked casually.
"He said it was for 'better trade plans'," Narasimha replied. "But he did not ask any other village that question. Only ours. And only about hidden grain, not visible."
The chieftain's jaw tightened.
"Spy," he muttered under his breath. "Measuring how much we can survive without their grace."
He ruffled his son's hair.
"Good," he said quietly. "You see which questions are wrong. Remember such faces. Trade is not just about coins. It is also about eyes."
Narasimha filed that away.
Later that night, he lay on his mat, staring at the ceiling, thinking:
If they are counting us in secret… I will count them too. Better than they count us.
✢ V. The First Favour Without a Name
One afternoon, when the heat was so strong that even the dogs looked offended, Narasimha sat under the shade near the well, tracing patterns in dust with a stick.
He overheard voices at the nearby corner.
A woman was arguing with a local moneylender—one of those men who never lifted a plough, but always had something to weigh on scales.
"I will pay," she said desperately. "Soon. When the harvest comes. Just do not take my land paper now."
"If I do not take something," he replied coolly, "how will I sleep? My money walks away whenever I trust too much."
"It is your interest that walks, not your money," she snapped, boldness flaring through fear. "We have been paying for two years!"
He clicked his tongue.
"And yet, still you owe. If you cannot pay in coin, I will keep your title until you do. It is only fair."
She went quiet, crushed by the logic.
Narasimha's hands tightened on the stick.
He got up and walked over.
The moneylender saw him and pasted on a smile.
"Ah, Dora's boy!" he said. "Such a bright young master. Come, sit."
Narasimha did not sit.
He looked at the paper in the man's hand.
"How much?" he asked.
The man blinked.
"How much what?" he hedge.
"How much does she owe," Narasimha said flatly, "and how much have you already squeezed from her family in interest?"
The directness threw him off.
He stuttered out a figure.
Narasimha's mind ticked.
It was more than double the original loan.
He felt that familiar tightness in his chest.
"That seems… crooked," he said plainly.
The moneylender bristled.
"Kanna," he said, voice fake-gentle, "this is business. You are too young to understand."
"Maybe," Narasimha replied. "But Appa says: 'If a man makes money and people curse his house, that is not business. That is bad karma'."
Behind him, a few villagers had gathered, curious.
He turned.
"Is this man generous?" he asked them loudly. "Do you feel he helps you when you are in trouble?"
There was an uneasy silence.
No one liked the moneylender.
No one wanted to be the first to say it.
Finally, an old woman spoke.
"He helps with one hand," she said bitterly, "and takes with both later."
Several heads nodded.
The moneylender shifted.
"Words," he said, forcing a smile. "Poor people always curse those with coin. It is human nature."
"Hmm," Narasimha hummed, too loudly.
He took a breath.
Think.
He was too young to order this man. His father was not here. The Company would protect money dealings if they profited from them.
He could not overturn everything in one afternoon.
But he could tilt the scale a little.
"All right," he said suddenly, eyes brightening with an idea. "Do one thing, then we will see."
The moneylender eyed him warily.
"What thing?"
"There is talk of a drought-fund from British for 'loyal' villages," Narasimha lied smoothly. "Appa was saying he will write and ask that they send it through our house instead of market. If they hear that some people here charge too high interest from starving farmers, they will say our village is not 'disciplined' and send to another place. Then who will you lend to? Hungry ghosts?"
The man paled slightly.
"Is this true?" he asked.
Narasimha lifted his chin.
"You can go and ask my father," he said. "He is at home. Shall we go together? We can discuss your interest rates with him… and perhaps with the next officer who visits."
The man imagined the Dora's stern stare. The British officer's displeasure. Losing future business if this boy's words soured his name at the top.
He licked his lips.
"That is not necessary," he said hurriedly. "We are all friends here. Why trouble big people over small matters?"
He looked at the woman.
"Give me half at harvest," he said reluctantly. "No more interest until then. If you pay that, I will cut the rest. Done."
She stared, stunned.
"Done," she whispered.
Narasimha smiled—not wide, not arrogant, just… satisfied.
"Good," he said. "Then we don't have to disturb Appa."
He walked away, heart pounding, knowing he'd just pulled a trick on a man older and more experienced than him.
His hands shook slightly.
He knew this was crooked in its own way—threatening with half-truths, leaning on power he did not yet truly hold.
But he also knew that if he had done nothing, the woman would have lost everything.
Better small light than full dark, he told himself.
That night, under the roof, he confessed to his father what he'd done.
The chieftain listened, then sighed.
"You should not lie so easily," he said.
Narasimha's face fell.
"But…" his father added, eyes softening, "if you are going to lie, at least let it be to pull a thorn from someone's foot. Still… next time, tell me before you decide to 'use my name'."
Narasimha nodded, chastened but secretly proud.
✦ VII. The Gossip of the Gods – Love, Krishna, and Trouble
While Narasimha experimented with small hustles to protect his people, far above, in the golden quiet of Vaikuntha, another kind of discussion was taking place.
The six had gathered again—not for a grand crisis, but in one of those rare moments when duties aligned and they could simply sit together.
They watched, for a few heartbeats, the scene of the boy bullying a moneylender in his own small way.
Lakshmi smiled.
"He does exactly what I expected," she said. "He hates working. Yet he cannot stop himself from working for others."
Saraswati nodded.
"And his tongue is sharp," she observed. "If we are not careful, he will start negotiating with even us."
Parvati chuckled.
"He already has," she said. "He asked us if he would still be able to laugh after we gave him Ichha-Marana. That is as direct as it gets."
For a little while, they discussed dharma, trade, and the shape of his future networks.
Then, as often happens when mothers sit together, the topic shifted.
Lakshmi glanced at Narasimha's thread of fate—the parts still foggy, the shadows of people he had yet to meet, battles he had yet to fight.
Her expression turned a shade more thoughtful.
"Keshava," she said suddenly, "we have spoken of his battles, his throne, his burden. We have not spoken enough of his… heart."
Vishnu pretended not to notice the change in tone.
"Hm?" he said mildly. "His heart is strong. We have—"
"Not like that, Swami," Lakshmi interrupted, rolling her eyes affectionately. "I mean his love life."
Saraswati's lips curved.
"Aha," she said with quiet amusement. "Here it begins."
Parvati leaned in eagerly, like an aunt about to hear about a favourite nephew.
"Yes, we must talk about that," she agreed. "Last life, we gave him no great romance. Only small joys, unfinished memories, and a truck."
She frowned, remembering.
"He died before he could keep half the promises he wanted to make. I do not like that."
Lakshmi nodded seriously.
"I agree," she said. "We owe him some balance. He will carry enough weight as king and as shield. At least in this life, his love should not become another arrow-bed."
Brahma cleared his throat lightly.
"Love is… a subtle thread," he said. "Too much interference creates knots."
"Too little interference leaves wounds," Parvati shot back. "We are not asking to write every song in his life. Just to make sure it does not become another tragedy."
Maheshwara, who had been mostly silent, glanced sideways at Vishnu.
"Vaikuntha-nivasi," he said mildly, "you look unusually quiet today."
Vishnu shifted just slightly.
It was very subtle—only someone who had watched him since before time would have noticed.
Lakshmi's eyes narrowed—gently, but firmly.
"Swami," she said, voice deceptively soft, "what are you hiding?"
Vishnu smiled his most innocent, most dangerous smile.
"Nothing, Kalyani," he said.
"Swami…" she repeated, leaning forward now, bangles chiming faintly. "Do not 'nothing' me in front of Saraswati and Parvati. You have that look. The 'I have done something you will scold me for later' look."
Saraswati coughed delicately, hiding a smile.
Parvati outright grinned.
"Yes, Narayana," she joined in. "What did you slip into this child's fate while we were busy worrying about his bones and battles?"
Vishnu sighed, the long-suffering sigh of someone who knew he'd been caught.
"All right," he admitted, lifting one hand. "It is a… small thing."
Lakshmi's eyes flashed.
"Small thing?" she repeated. "Last time you called something 'small', we got an entire Mahabharata."
Vishnu winced.
"That was… different," he said. "This is only… flavour."
Brahma watched with barely concealed amusement.
"Out with it," he advised. "Before she starts searching the entire thread herself."
Vishnu glanced at Narasimha's line of destiny, then back at his wife.
"You remember," he began carefully, "how in his last life, he admired Krishna's stories very much? Not only as warrior or statesman, but also… as lover?"
Lakshmi drew herself up slightly.
"Yes," she said lightly, though her eyes stayed sharp. "He admired how Krishna loved many, guided many, and still walked his path. What of it?"
Vishnu gave a sheepish half-smile.
"Well," he said, "when we were shaping this life, I may have whispered a small… blessing into his line."
"What blessing?" Lakshmi asked, voice sweet, dangerous.
Vishnu spoke quickly, as if pulling a bandage off.
"I blessed him," he confessed, "that his heart in love would be… somewhat like Krishna's—deep, playful, steadfast, able to love greatly without breaking under it. Without the same tragedies, of course. No cursed forest arrows. No city of friends collapsing into madness. Just the… good parts."
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then Lakshmi's hand smacked lightly—yet meaningfully—against his upper arm.
"Keshava!" she scolded. "You blessed him with a Krishna-type love life and did not tell me? Are you trying to give me another lifetime of headaches?"
Parvati laughed outright.
"Oh, this I want to see," she said. "An immortal rebel king with Krishna's heart and Bhishma's spine. The poor girls."
Saraswati chuckled, eyes twinkling.
"At least," she said, "this time we can make sure the women he loves are not shattered by his path. We can weave strength into them as well."
Lakshmi huffed, but her anger was mostly affectionate.
"Swami," she said, "if he starts flirting like you, disappearing at crucial moments and talking philosophy instead of answering direct questions, I will personally come down and pull his ear."
Vishnu raised both hands in surrender.
"I have only given him the capacity to love greatly," he said. "Not to abandon. The rest is up to all of us—and him."
Lakshmi exhaled, calming.
"Very well," she said at last. "Then hear my word—this time, any love we allow him will not be a punishment. He will suffer enough as king and immortal. When we give him someone, it will be to be his anchor, not another chain."
Parvati nodded firmly.
"Agreed," she said. "He is our shared responsibility now. We will not let his heart be toyed with."
Saraswati added gently,
"And when the time comes, we will make sure the one who walks beside him can understand not only his joke and his tears, but also his vows."
Maheshwara arched a brow.
"And if his Krishna-blessed heart decides to love more than once?"
Lakshmi gave Vishnu such a look.
"If he does it with dharma and clarity," she said coolly, "we will see. But if he tries any of your vanishing tricks, Swami… I will send him dreams of endless paperwork until he apologizes."
Vishnu winced again.
"Cruel," he murmured. "Truly Kaliyuga has sharpened your methods."
The Devis exchanged a look—a quiet agreement, half playful, half deadly serious.
Whatever else happened, this child would not have a heart left splintered by divine negligence.
His life would have enough storms.
His love would not be another one they created.
✵ VIII. The Boy Who Listened to Coins
Down below, oblivious to the celestial aunties planning his future romances, Narasimha continued his small acts of observation.
He watched which farmers always borrowed and which lent.
He noticed that the man who laughed the loudest in public often stole in subtle ways—slightly wrong measures, slightly unfair prices, never enough to be publicly caught.
He started quietly warning those he liked.
"Don't buy grain from him when you are desperate," he whispered one evening to a neighbour. "He cuts his measures. Buy from him only when you can count slowly."
"How do you know?" the man asked.
Narasimha shrugged.
"I watched," he said simply.
Sometimes, he shared his observations with his father.
Sometimes, he kept them, storing away patterns in a mind that was slowly training itself to be both king and spy.
He was still just a boy—feet dusty, knees scraped, hair messy.
He still whined when asked to write too much.
He still joked that if he ever became king, his first decree would be "Half paperwork, double nap time."
But in those early years, 5 to 7, the foundation of his future empire was being laid—not in brick or stone, but in habits:
watching,
listening,
remembering who lied and how,
learning where wealth flowed and where it pooled.
He did not yet move those rivers.
But he could already see them.
✦ IX. Heaven's Verdict on a Child Merchant
One last time that year, the six watched him from above as he sat, dirty and tired, under the banyan tree, splitting a single sweet into three portions to share with two younger children.
He grumbled as he did.
"See?" he told them. "If you both eat, you will grow. If only I eat, I must do all the work in future. This is me investing in my own rest."
They laughed, crumbs on their faces.
Saraswati shook her head, smiling.
"Even when he is generous," she said, "he frames it as selfishness."
Lakshmi's gaze was fond.
"He is learning that sharing is also a kind of trade," she said. "A better one than most men manage."
Parvati simply watched, eyes bright.
"Naatha," she said softly to Maheshwara, "the more I see him, the more I understand why my heart refused to let that well take him."
Maheshwara nodded.
"Let him build his little bargains and small rescues now," he said. "Soon enough, he will build networks of men and steel. For now, these are good rehearsals."
Vishnu glanced at Lakshmi, smile warm.
"And when his heart starts to stir toward someone in love," he added lightly, "remind me not to 'accidentally' bless him too much without telling you."
Lakshmi looked at him sidelong.
"I have already told you the punishment," she said. "Do not test me, Swami."
He raised his hands again in surrender.
"Then I shall behave," he replied.
For a few breaths, they all simply watched.
A child in a dusty village, eating his small part of a divided sweet, laughing as if the world were not moving steadily toward storms.
The seeds of trade, rebellion, kingship, espionage, immortality, and complicated love had all been planted.
Chapter by chapter, the soil around them was being prepared.
Soon, Narasimha would no longer merely observe the flows of power and wealth.
He would shape them.
But for now, in this quiet gap between early vow and coming schemes, he was still allowed to be:
An observant boy in a land of stone and sky—
grumbling about work,
saving who he could,
and unknowingly making gods argue about how best to protect his heart.