#----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------#
Author Thought
Dear Readers,
I'm excited to share that my book," The Last Over: Rise of Nikhil Srivastam", is now available — a story crafted especially for every cricket lover.
This book celebrates the spirit of the game through passion, perseverance, and the emotions that define cricket's timeless charm.
Whether you're a casual follower or a devoted fan, I warmly invite you to explore the pages and experience the world I've created.
Your thoughts, reviews, and encouragement mean the world and will inspire the journey ahead.
#----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------#
The village near the Ganga stirred with the rhythm of daily life—chariots creaked, wheels spun, and the scent of wet earth lingered in the air. Karna, now six, had grown into a quiet, observant child. His golden earrings still shimmered in the sun, and the armor embedded in his chest remained untouched, a mystery even to his adoptive parents, Radha and Adhiratha.
Though they never spoke of his origin, Karna often wondered why he felt different. He was respectful, diligent, and kind—but something inside him burned. A yearning. A question. A fire.
One morning, while fetching water from the river, Karna saw a group of boys practicing with wooden swords and bows. They laughed, shouted, and mimicked warriors from the royal courts. Karna stood at a distance, watching their movements—how they held their stance, how they aimed, how they missed.
He returned home, silent but restless.
That evening, Adhiratha noticed the change. "You've seen the boys training," he said gently.
Karna nodded. "I want to learn."
Adhiratha paused. "We are charioteers, Karna. We serve. We do not fight."
"But I want to understand," Karna replied. "Not to fight. To know."
Moved by his son's resolve, Adhiratha took him to an old friend—Vrisha, a retired soldier who once served in the outskirts of Hastinapura. Vrisha lived alone, surrounded by broken shields and faded scrolls. When he saw Karna, he smiled. "You have the eyes of someone who listens before he strikes."
Vrisha agreed to teach him—not as a warrior, but as a student of discipline.
The first lesson was not with weapons. It was with silence.
"You must learn to breathe before you learn to aim," Vrisha said. "A steady breath leads to a steady hand."
Karna practiced every morning—standing still, listening to the wind, feeling the earth beneath his feet. Only after weeks did Vrisha place a wooden bow in his hands. It was rough, uneven, and heavy.
"Why not a better bow?" Karna asked.
"Because mastery begins with imperfection," Vrisha replied.
Karna trained in secret. He learned to string the bow, to draw without trembling, to aim without pride. His fingers blistered, his arms ached, but he never complained. Radha would apply herbal paste to his hands each night, whispering prayers to protect him.
One day, Vrisha placed a small clay pot on a tree branch. "Strike it," he said.
Karna took a deep breath, aimed, and released. The arrow flew—swift, silent—and shattered the pot.
Vrisha nodded. "You are ready."
But Karna knew he was not. He had tasted the path, but not the truth. He wanted more—not just skill, but recognition. Not just training, but purpose.
That night, he sat by the river, staring at his reflection. The armor on his chest glowed faintly under the moonlight. He touched it, wondering who he truly was.
In the distance, the boys still trained with laughter and ease. Karna trained with silence and fire.