#----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------#
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.
#----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------#
At six years old, Dhira had grown into a force of nature. His limbs were thick with muscle, his posture upright and alert, and his eyes—sharp as a hawk's—missed nothing. While other children played with bows and spears, Dhira trained his body like a sacred weapon. He believed the fist and the foot were the true tools of survival, and his constant companion was a gnarled wooden stick he had found during a tribal migration. No matter how he struck, twisted, or burned it, the stick refused to break. He named it Adolita—"Unshaken, Unmoved."
Despite warnings from his parents and elders, Dhira often wandered far from the Varha tribe's nomadic settlement—sometimes thirty or forty kosh deep into the forest. "There are dangers beyond what you can fight," his father Bhaira had warned. "Even your strength has limits."
But Dhira never listened.
That morning, he slipped away again, Adolita in hand, leaping over roots and ducking under vines. The forest was alive—chirping, rustling, whispering secrets. As he ventured deeper, something unusual caught his eye: a small monkey, sitting perfectly still on a moss-covered rock, eyes closed in meditation.
Dhira froze.
The monkey didn't move. Its breathing was slow, deliberate. It looked serene, untouched by the chaos of the jungle. Dhira crouched nearby, watching for nearly an hour. He tried tossing pebbles, mimicking bird calls, even creeping closer—but the monkey remained unmoved.
Eventually, boredom won. Dhira turned and sprinted back toward the settlement, leaping over fallen logs and swinging from low branches. As he tried to sneak past the outer tents, a familiar voice called out.
"Caught you again."
His sister Shakthi, now 10 , stood with arms crossed. Her build had changed—leaner, stronger, more defined. She had taken to shadowing Dhira during his training, mimicking his routines, absorbing his discipline. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and challenge.
"You went too far again," she said.
Dhira shrugged. "I saw a monkey meditating."
Shakthi raised an eyebrow. "A monkey? Meditating?"
"Yes. It didn't move. Not once."
She laughed. "You and your stories."
Dhira frowned. He had expected disbelief. His reputation as a trickster preceded him. Even his friends and mother dismissed the tale. So he let it go.
But Shakthi was more than just skeptical—she was lucky. Too lucky.
No child in the tribe could defeat Dhira in combat—not even those seven years older. Yet Shakthi always found a way to win. Once, just as Dhira was about to land a finishing blow, he tripped on his own leg and fell face-first into the dirt. Another time, a pack of wild dogs appeared out of nowhere and chased him mid-duel, forcing him to flee.
Shakthi's luck extended beyond battle. During a stroll, she once discovered an ancient bark scroll etched with delicate script. When she showed it to Bhaira, he recognized it as a fragment of the original Ramayana, written by Rishi Valmiki himself. Another time, while praying to the sun god, she had whispered, "Raksam kuru Surya Deva"—"Grant protection, O Sun God." That very day, she survived a landslide unscathed, her body glowing faintly with divine energy.
Dhira, ever observant, began calling her Bhagyavati—"The Fortunate One."
That night, as the tribe gathered around the fire, Dhira sat beside his mother Kalyani, still thinking about the meditating monkey. She smiled and began narrating the Ramayana, her voice soft and rhythmic. When she spoke of Jambavan, the bear warrior who fought with fists and wisdom, Dhira's eyes lit up.
"He didn't need weapons," Dhira whispered. "Just his body."
Kalyani nodded. "And his heart."
Dhira gripped Adolita tighter. Somewhere in the forest, a monkey still meditated. Somewhere in the world, warriors like Jambavan still lived in stories. And somewhere in his soul, Dhira felt the stirrings of something ancient—something unshaken, unmoved.