Monday, 30 December 2024
Monday, 30 December 2024
Besides being Telugu film franchises and box-office megablockbusters, Baahubali and Pushpa have one more thing in common. Both movies feature strong, resilient protagonists who rise from humble beginnings to become charismatic and larger-than-life characters.
On a rain-swept afternoon at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, 21-year-old Nitish Kumar Reddy wrote a script that even Telugu cinema's finest writers might find hard to match.
Not because he celebrated his maiden Test half-century and century with Pushpa and Baahubali's signature moves, nor because his journey mirrors the grand narratives of these silver-screen tales. Rather, because in the quiet corners of Visakhapatnam, a father's resignation letter from a secure government job carried more drama than any climactic scene Tollywood – or Bollywood – could conjure.
"Cricket wasn't a choice," Reddy Senior often says, his eyes fixed on old scoresheets. "It was our family business."
The investment wasn't in runs or wickets, but in early morning rides to the Andhra Cricket Academy, in tennis balls that marked their home's walls with dedication's scars, in dreams that replaced furniture with cricket bats.
Former India wicketkeeper MSK Prasad first spotted young Nitish during an Under-12 match, not for his technique but for his eyes. This was before the 441 against Nagaland that would become local lore, before the IPL contract with Sunrisers Hyderabad that would ease some financial burdens, before the Test cap that would validate years of sacrifice.
But unlike the protagonists of Pushpa and Baahubali, whose mothers' sacrifices drive their narratives, Nitish's story is written in the ink of his father's courage.
When neighbours questioned the sound of cricket balls hitting concrete walls at dawn, when relatives whispered about career stability, when bank balances dwindled and dreams seemed to outweigh reality, his father stood firm. Not with the dramatic dialogue but with quiet resolve that makes for poorer theatre but richer life.
The 2017-18 Vijay Merchant Trophy became their first shared triumph. While Nitish's 1,237 runs at an average of 176.41 made headlines, few knew of the ancestral land sold to keep his kit bag full.
"I didn't know then," Nitish admits now. "Every boundary I hit felt like my achievement. Now I know each run was an installment repaying a debt I didn't even know I owed."
The MCG century, while historic in statistics – making him the third-youngest Indian to score a Test hundred in Australia after Sachin Tendulkar and Rishabh Pant – tells only part of the story.
When he reached 99, with last man Mohammed Siraj guarding his dreams at the other end, the tension in the commentary box matched any pre-interval cliffhanger. "Yeh aankhon mein aansoo wala 100 hai [This is a century that brings tears]," Ravi Shastri's voice boomed across airwaves.
But the real tears were flowing in a small living room in Visakhapatnam.
His partnership with Washington Sundar, who would later declare "Nitish Reddy is fire, not flower," wasn't just about the 129 runs they added.
It was about two young men from different corners of India, carrying different dreams but similar weights. When Sundar fell, having faced 162 balls for his patient 50, the story seemed headed for an anticlimactic end.
But Nitish had spent too many years watching his father choose faith over fear to let this moment slip.
The on-drive that brought up his century wasn't just about perfect timing or technique. It was about timing of a different sort – the kind that transforms sacrifices into success, faith into fruition. As he raised his bat, the cameras caught his father in the stands, creating the kind of moment that needs no script or direction.
"For our family, it's a special day," his father would later tell Adam Gilchrist, voice carrying years of early mornings, tight budgets and unwavering belief.
But special doesn't begin to describe a journey that started with a resignation letter and culminated in a standing ovation at cricket's grandest stage.
In the modern era of Indian cricket, where academies promise to manufacture champions and IPL contracts transform lives overnight, Nitish's story stands apart. Not because it's more dramatic or deserving, but because it remains rooted in the simplest of narratives – a father's faith and a son's dedication.
Back in Visakhapatnam, the walls of their home still bear the marks of tennis balls. They're not covered up or painted over, but preserved like battle scars of a war won with love. Cricket may have been their family business, but love was their capital, faith their profit.
When his sister spoke to the media after his century, she said, "We are all very proud." But pride doesn't capture the essence of their journey. In Telugu cinema, they would call it prema – love that transcends sacrifice.
In cricket, they might call it determination. In the Reddy household, they simply call it Sunday morning practice sessions, afternoon tennis ball games, and evening discussions about technique.
As Nitish Kumar Reddy continues to write his story in international cricket, averaging over 70 in his first six Test innings, he carries more than just the hopes of Indian cricket. He carries the quiet heroism of a father who chose to invest in dreams when reality offered safer options. In that sense, maybe his story is better than any Telugu blockbuster – because every scene is real, every emotion earned, and every triumph shared.
The next time he celebrates a milestone with a Pushpa move or a Baahubali gesture, remember – the real cinema was playing out long before, in a government office where a father signed away his security to secure his son's dreams.
That's the kind of story even movies can't make up.
