Krishnamurthy Shrikanth

I don't think I consciously shifted from banking or restaurants into storytelling. Looking back, I feel I was always collecting stories without realizing it.

Banking taught me that every person who walks into a branch carries an invisible world with them—their dreams, fears, responsibilities and sacrifices. The restaurant business showed me another side of humanity. People celebrate, grieve, fall in love, argue and reconcile over a simple meal. If you observe carefully, every table has a story.

For years those stories simply stayed with me.

Writing happened when I realized that some ideas refused to leave. I would imagine a forest that remembered its people, a child speaking to fire, or a woman protecting the wilderness like a tigress. Those images kept returning until the only way to quiet them was to write them down.

I never decided to become a writer in a single moment. It happened gradually, one page at a time.

Today, I still don't think of myself as someone who creates stories from nothing. I think I simply listen long enough until they decide to reveal themselves.

Absolutely. It began with a single image that refused to leave my mind.

I imagined a white tigress being killed by poachers in the middle of the night. At that very same moment, somewhere far away, a little girl was born.

Years later, during a school trip to a zoo, that same girl sees a zoo warden fall into a tiger enclosure while feeding the animal. As panic spreads around her, she doesn't scream or run. She simply looks at the tiger and, with complete calm, asks it to stop.

And it does.

I didn't know who that girl was or why the tiger listened to her. I only knew there was a story hidden inside that moment.

As I started writing, one question led to another. What connects a child to the wilderness? What if nature remembers us even when we forget it? And what happens when that bond is broken?

Those questions slowly expanded beyond a single novel and became the foundation of the Tattvaverse.

Today, I still see Durga: The Baaghini as the story of one girl discovering her place in the world. But in many ways, it is also the story of humanity trying to rediscover its place within nature.

It evolved through questions rather than answers.

Once I had the image of the white tigress and the little girl, I kept asking myself—why? Why would a tiger listen to a human child? What invisible thread connects them? If such a bond exists, what happens when humans begin to exploit or disturb it?

The more I explored those questions, the bigger the story became.

I started reading about Indian mythology, wildlife conservation, tribal traditions and the five elements described in our ancient texts. I realized that our stories have always treated nature not as a resource, but as something sacred and alive.

That realization slowly transformed a single novel into an entire universe.

Every new question gave birth to another character, another place, another mystery. Before I knew it, I wasn't just writing Durga: The Baaghini. I was building a world where every element has its own story and every human being is only a temporary keeper of something far older than themselves.

In many ways, I didn't create the Tattvaverse by planning seven books. I simply kept following one question until it opened seven different paths.

I never saw them as separate things.

When we read our ancient stories, rivers have memories, mountains become teachers, forests offer refuge and fire becomes a witness to every important moment in life. Nature isn't just scenery, it is part of the story.

At the same time, I believe every myth survives because it speaks about something deeply human. Love, fear, loss, hope, greed and sacrifice remain the same whether the story is set in an ancient forest or a modern city.

That naturally led me to blend mythology, wilderness and human emotion into a single narrative world.

For me, mythology is not about explaining the supernatural. It is another way of exploring our relationship with the world around us. A forest is not merely a location, a river is not just water and fire is not simply heat. They become mirrors that reveal who we are.

Perhaps that's why my stories are less about heroes defeating villains and more about people discovering whether they are capable of living in harmony with something greater than themselves.

Nature does not need humanity to survive. Humanity needs to remember that it belongs to nature.

For me, Sheshvan was never meant to be a backdrop. It was the first character I met.

Before I knew who Durga was or where the story would go, I could already hear the forest—the silence after rain, the distant call of birds, leaves moving without wind and ancient trees that seemed to have witnessed generations come and go.

I wanted readers to feel that the forest was watching, remembering and quietly participating in every choice the characters made.

I also drew inspiration from the forests I have visited across India and from stories I heard growing up, where nature was treated with reverence rather than ownership. Villages often speak about a particular tree, a river or a hill as though it has a personality. That way of seeing the world fascinated me.

While writing, I tried to approach Sheshvan the same way I would write a human character. It has moods. It offers comfort, hides secrets, protects those who respect it and becomes dangerous when its balance is disturbed.

I believe the most memorable places in fiction are the ones readers miss after finishing the book. My hope is that when someone closes Durga: The Baaghini, they don't just remember the characters, they remember the feeling of walking beneath the trees of Sheshvan and wonder if forests have always been listening to us.

From the beginning, I never wanted Durga's strength to come from being fearless or invincible.

I wanted it to come from empathy.

She is someone who listens before she acts, who trusts her instincts, and who sees life where others see danger. Her connection with the wilderness is not based on control but on respect, and I felt that was a much more meaningful kind of strength.

I also wanted her to remain deeply human. She doubts herself, makes mistakes, experiences loss and carries the weight of difficult choices. Those moments of vulnerability were just as important to me as the moments where she stands up against impossible odds.

For me, courage is not the absence of fear. It is choosing compassion even when fear would be easier.

As I wrote her journey, I realized that Durga wasn't trying to become a hero. She was simply trying to protect what she loved. I think that makes her relatable, because most ordinary people don't wake up wanting to save the world. They wake up wanting to save a family, a friend, a home or a forest.

If readers remember one thing about Durga, I hope it is this:

True strength is not measured by the power to dominate nature, but by the willingness to stand beside it.

I've always believed that very few people wake up believing they are the villain of their own story.

Most people act out of love, fear, conviction, ambition or the desire to protect something they value. Even when they make terrible choices, those choices usually make sense to them.

That's the space I enjoy exploring.

Rather than asking whether a character is good or evil, I ask a different question: What truth do they believe so completely that they are willing to risk everything for it?

Once I understand that, the character begins to feel real.

I also try not to judge the people I write. As an author, my responsibility is to understand them before I expect readers to do the same. Sometimes that means the protagonist makes mistakes. Sometimes it means the antagonist is driven by ideals that are genuinely compelling.

Life rarely presents us with simple choices, and I think stories become more meaningful when they reflect that complexity.

Ultimately, I don't write heroes and villains.

I write people whose choices disturb or restore the balance around them.

And I leave it to the reader to decide where they stand.

The most difficult part was restraint.

As a writer, when you build a world filled with ancient powers, mythology and extraordinary events, the temptation is to show those powers on every page. But I wanted every miracle to feel earned.

If a tiger obeys a child, if a flame leans toward someone, or if the forest itself seems to respond, I wanted the reader to pause and wonder instead of expecting another spectacle in the next chapter.

For me, power is most meaningful when it is quiet.

A small flicker of a diya can be more powerful than an explosion if it changes a character's heart.

That restraint was the hardest thing while writing Durga: The Baaghini. I often had to stop myself from explaining too much or revealing too much. I wanted mystery to remain alive, allowing readers to experience the story rather than simply consume it.

I believe imagination is strongest when the writer leaves space for the reader.

So every miracle in the book is intentionally understated. The extraordinary exists, but it never shouts. It simply reminds us that the world is deeper than we think.

Because in the Tattvaverse, the elements are never performing for us. They simply exist, and for a brief moment, we are fortunate enough to witness them.

Nothing was planned.

The Tattvaverse didn't begin with an outline or a grand blueprint. It began with a single question:

What if nature itself walked among us?

Every day we witness forests being cut down, rivers being forced into concrete channels, mountains being carved apart and land being taken away in the name of development. We often speak about protecting nature as if it is helpless.

I wondered what would happen if it wasn't.

What if the elements remembered? What if fire, water, earth, air and space were not resources but ancient forces with their own will? What if they chose their own keepers and seekers to reclaim the balance humanity had disturbed?

From that one thought, every story grew naturally. Characters appeared, myths connected, and each book revealed another part of a universe that I myself was discovering while writing.

So I never planned the Tattvaverse.

I simply followed the path the elements chose to reveal.

Durga: The Baaghini is a story about instinct, belonging and the wild strength that protects life.

Advait: Born of Fire asks a very different question.

Can something that has the power to destroy also become the greatest source of warmth?

Most stories treat fire as a weapon or a force to be controlled. I wanted to explore fire as a living element that transforms everything it touches. Sometimes it burns, sometimes it illuminates, and sometimes it simply waits for someone willing to listen.

The tone is quieter, more introspective and deeply rooted in the relationship between humanity and the natural world. It is a coming-of-age story, but it is also a mystery that unfolds across decades, where mythology, science and philosophy gradually begin to speak the same language.

Readers can expect a slower burn. The miracles are subtle, the questions are larger, and the greatest battles are not fought with power but with choice.

Because in the Tattvaverse, the true heroes are never the people.

They are the elements themselves, and humans are merely their keepers or seekers.

The parts that came most naturally were the quiet moments.

Not the action scenes or the supernatural events, but the conversations between a child and a tigress, a father and his daughter, or a forest that seemed to be listening without speaking and the friendship between Durga and Kavya.

I've always believed that wonder doesn't arrive with noise. It arrives in silence—a leaf falling at the right moment, an animal choosing to trust a human, or a single diya burning against the wind.

Those moments almost wrote themselves.

For me, the emotional connections between characters are what make the extraordinary believable. If readers care about the people, then even the smallest miracle becomes unforgettable.

I hope readers finish the book with a renewed sense of respect for nature.

We often think of ourselves as protectors of the natural world, but perhaps we are simply one small part of it.

Durga: The Baaghini is not a story about humans saving nature. It is about remembering that nature has always sustained us without asking for anything in return.

If the book encourages someone to look at a river, a tree, a flame or an animal with a little more gratitude and a little less ownership, then it has achieved what I wanted.

Because the Tattvaverse begins with a very simple belief:

The elements do not belong to us. We belong to them.

I hope they see me as someone who asks questions rather than someone who claims to have answers.

The Tattvaverse is built on familiar elements—fire, water, earth, air and space—but it asks readers to look at them differently. Not as powers to possess, but as ancient forces that shape every life on this planet.

As a storyteller, I prefer quiet mysteries over loud spectacles. I like ordinary people placed before extraordinary choices, where compassion matters more than strength and restraint matters more than power.

Readers can expect every book to explore a different element, a different philosophy and a different kind of human journey, while slowly revealing a much larger story that connects them all.

If someone finishes the first book and starts noticing the wind a little more, the silence of a forest a little more, or the flame of a small diya a little differently, then I know the Tattvaverse has already begun for them.