Rebirth of the Indian Chemist.

Velikara – 1711 CE

By the time we returned to Velikara, the sky was the color of war.

Thick grey clouds hung like brooding sentinels above the hills, and the river growled beneath them, swollen with pre-monsoon tantrums. But it wasn't the storm we feared—it was the silence in the village.

Children were not playing. Elders weren't gossiping. And Stone was not in his favorite spot by the banyan tree.

Devika reached for her spear before I said a word. Bhairav had already vanished behind a stack of hay bales.

Then, a familiar voice called out: "You're back!"

It was Meenakshi, Devika's cousin and Velikara's self-declared information minister. Her eyes sparkled with gossip ready to erupt like an over-shaken pot.

"They came two days ago," she whispered urgently. "Outsiders. With scrolls and uniforms. Said they came to 'inspect the waterworks.'"

"Dutch?" I asked.

"No. Worse. Royal court inspectors. From the inland kingdom of Eravanad."

That wasn't part of my plans.

---

The Eravanad Kingdom was a loose confederation of minor noble houses centered around timber, salt rights, and old grudges. Their 'inspectors' usually meant trouble disguised as etiquette.

We found them near the dam.

Two men and one woman stood in stiff cotton coats, measuring walls with ivory rods and murmuring over palm-leaf ledgers.

The lead man spotted me. "Ah. The water boy."

I nodded. "Welcome to Velikara. You'll find our walls uncracked and our drainage divine."

The woman raised a brow. "You talk like a merchant."

"I build like an engineer."

"Same thing these days," the second man muttered.

They asked the usual questions: Who authorized this? Who funded the materials? Did anyone die? Had we tested against buffalo stampedes? (Yes. Bhairav counted.)

When they left, they gave no comment. Just notes.

Devika spat into the dirt. "They're planning something."

"Agreed."

"Like what?"

"Either they want to take it… or they want to break it."

---

We called a midnight council beneath the banyan tree.

The elders gathered. Farmers. Millers. The priest. Devika's uncle (who mostly came for the snacks).

I unrolled the new map: a network of canals, roads, and relay towers.

"This isn't just about Velikara anymore," I said. "The Dutch are clearing a coastal route. If they succeed, they'll cut off the interior from trade. And if Eravanad allies with them, we'll be surrounded."

"Can we stop them?" someone asked.

"Not alone," Devika answered. "But we can prepare. And we can build something they'll have to go through."

Bhairav stepped forward, grinning. "A fortress."

---

Not a full castle. We didn't have time. But a modular, multi-tiered storage and defense complex along the high banks behind the dam? That we could do.

I spent the next day drawing. Devika organized teams. Bhairav somehow recruited two ex-bandits who claimed they used to guard spice caravans.

Construction began in secret.

We called it Project Ankusha—the elephant goad.

---

Stone supervised the digging. Mostly by standing in the way of carts and demanding mango peels.

The lower tier was storage—dry granaries, root cellars, and emergency water barrels. The mid-tier had reinforced platforms and lookout nooks.

The top tier was an open-air signal post with space for three guards and a rotating drum.

But the true innovation was the floodgate mechanism.

---

Using Devika's new designs, we built a twin-channel flood release system. In heavy rains, we could redirect the water flow around the village via a bypass canal.

It involved levers, pulleys, and a tension-locked iron gate built from scrap we'd hauled from Karavettur.

Meenakshi named it "The Demon's Teeth."

"If you hear it creak," she said, "run uphill."

---

Of course, nothing went smoothly.

On Day 6, the pulley rope snapped and nearly decapitated a goat (not Stone).

On Day 9, a visiting herbalist mistook our mortar mix for rice paste and used it on a boil. (He's fine, but talks slower now.)

On Day 11, the sky opened.

The monsoon began.

---

The first test came too early.

Rains hammered the hills. The river roared. The floodgates groaned.

We all stood on the eastern ridge, soaked to the bone, watching the water level rise.

"Time?" Devika shouted.

"Now!" I yelled.

Bhairav kicked the release.

Water surged into the bypass. The canal hissed and shuddered—but held.

Velikara stayed dry.

We wept in the rain.

Stone sneezed triumphantly.

---

The next morning, we found a message tube lodged in a tree trunk near the dam.

Inside: a note written in elegant old Tamil.

> "The elephant lifts its foot. Be careful what lies beneath."

There was no signature. But the wax seal bore the insignia of House Thelliyoor, one of Eravanad's oldest noble lines.

Devika's hands shook.

"They've noticed," she said.

"They're watching," I replied.

"And they're not impressed."

I looked out at the floodgates.

"Then we'll show them something worth fearing."

---

By Day 20, the fortress was functional.

By Day 23, a scout reported that Dutch surveyors had passed through a nearby forest trail.

By Day 25, Bhairav returned with news that a Tamil noble was seeking allies to oppose the Dutch-backed route.

And by Day 28, we stood in the rain again.

But this time, not watching water.

This time, we were waiting for emissaries.

Our first alliance offer.

And the future of Velikara would no longer be decided in secret.

It would be built in stone, spoken in code, and guarded by floodgates.