"Hiranyaksha still retains the bonds of his clan. And Hiranyakashipu, too, holds deep affection for his subjects."
Indra's voice cut through the air, sharp and deliberate, carrying the weight of ancient authority.
"Even if their darker tendencies consume them, even if they rebel against Dharma, they cannot completely erase their inherent goodness."
He paused. The silence that followed was thick, almost ceremonial. His gaze hardened.
"But what about you?"
His voice dropped, low and resonant, like the roll of a thunderous drum.
Boom.
His eyes flared, sharp as a scimitar, gleaming with a force that could slice through clouds. That gaze struck Rishi Durvasa directly, unflinching. The energy between them crackled, poised like a storm moments before it breaks.
The surrounding Rishis stared, eyes wide in disbelief. For ages, no one had dared challenge Durvasa's wrath. No one had spoken against him with such conviction. This was more than a confrontation. It was something historic.
But Indra remained undeterred.
"Back when Devi Ganga was still young, dwelling in the Brahmaloka, she saw you bathing. She smiled."
His voice now held the weight of storm clouds ready to burst.
"And you cursed her. You condemned her to fall into the mortal world. To become a river."
He raised an eyebrow, his tone sharp and accusatory.
"Is that how it went?"
Rishi Durvasa's breath hitched. His fists clenched, shaking with fury.
"You speak as if her actions were innocent, Indra!" he spat. "She mocked my sacred ritual. She laughed at my humiliation!"
Indra sneered, his voice cool and cutting.
"She was a child, Durvasa. Pure. Unaware of the world's rites and laws. She did not understand your pride, or the offense you took in it."
He stepped closer. The distance between them, now symbolic, felt charged with divine pressure.
"And yet you cast your curse without a moment's hesitation. You bound her, Devi Ganga, to the mortal world. You condemned her to flow endlessly as a river."
His voice became a blade, centuries of divine rule behind every syllable.
"Even the Asuras would not have acted with such cruelty."
The air grew heavy, saturated with the weight of judgment. Then Indra's gaze flicked downward.
Toward the kamaṇḍalu in Durvasa's hand.
A hush fell over the assembly.
Boom.
Indra's eyes locked on the vessel.
"The water inside..." His tone was quiet now, almost soft, but no less commanding. "It must be from the Ganga. From the very Devi you cursed."
Murmurs rippled among the Devas. All eyes were on Durvasa now.
Indra stepped forward, the tempo of his words slow and deliberate.
"The Ganga has blessed the mortal realm. She has cleansed sins, quenched the flames of sorrow, and carried prayers to the Svarga. I have no doubt you've bathed in her waters yourself, drunk from the very blessings you once condemned."
His words rang out like a bell in a silent temple.
"So tell me, Rishi Durvasa, when you sip from those sacred waters, do you not feel even a flicker of guilt?"
He tilted his head slightly, his voice unwavering.
"Or do you take pride in your curse? Do you truly believe the world is better for what you did?"
A pause. The silence was almost reverent now.
"Or perhaps," Indra continued, his tone now laced with quiet venom, "you see yourself as the cause of Ganga's grace. The one who gave the world her blessings through your punishment."
He let the words linger.
"Everything in this world moves according to karma. Cause and effect, entwined through time."
His gaze sharpened once more.
"Sometimes an unrighteous cause may yield a righteous result. But that does not make the cause righteous."
The gathered Rishis exchanged uneasy glances.
Each of them, at some point in their long lives, had bathed in the sacred waters of Devi Ganga, washed clean of karmic burdens, sanctified by her grace. This matter was no simple clash of right and wrong. It was layered, steeped in sacred history, and few among them dared to take sides.
Even the Devas looked shaken.
"Big brother truly knows how to hold a court," Surya murmured, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he exhaled slowly.
"Like a sacred bull set loose on the battlefield of thought. Once he charges, there's no stopping him," Agni said, his eyes gleaming with admiration.
Handsome, he mused, shaking his head, still reeling from Indra's calm and precision. That's it. I'm studying true Vedic śāstrārtha.
"As expected of our big brother," Vayu muttered, awe threading through his voice. "Sharp of tongue, steady in stance. He debates like a seasoned rishi, not a king."
Even Varuna, ever stern and reserved, allowed a rare smile to touch his lips.
But at the center of it all, Rishi Durvasa stood trembling. His breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving like a storm barely held back.
His bloodshot eyes locked onto Indra with the wild ferocity of a cornered lion.
"Enough!" he thundered.
His voice cracked across the heavens, raw and divine in its force.
"You speak with the recklessness of one untethered to Shastra. Your words stray from Dharma and reek of pride."
A heavy silence fell upon Svarga. Even the wind seemed to recoil.
Durvasa's face burned crimson. His hair bristled with divine fury. With a guttural grunt, he raised his kamaṇḍalu, poised to unleash judgment.
But then… he paused.
His gaze dropped to the water inside, the sacred, shimmering essence of Devi Ganga, the very river he had cursed.
A low hum rose from his chest. It was not a growl, but the vibration of unspent tapas. He turned to face Indra once more, his gaze ablaze with righteous fire.
"I have heard enough," he declared, each word deliberate, like mantras released from a storm-wrapped altar.
"You, O wielder of Vajra, have let pride cloud your discernment. You stand defiant before Rishis, scorning the very order that preserves the worlds."
His hand rose, not in wrath, but with the solemnity of a sage invoking cosmic law.
"Indra… Indra… Indra…"
Each utterance echoed with the resonance of invocation, drawn from the fabric of Dharma itself, twisting and binding the air.
And then it came.
A burst of ascetic power, tapas accumulated over yugas, surged upward, luminous and uncontainable. It shot into the heavens like a pillar of purifying fire.
Across Svarga, the skies cracked open with a terrible sound, as if the very vault of the cosmos had been split. Clouds churned in revolt, roiling like an agitated sea. Lightning licked across the firmament in long arcs, tongues of flame dancing like Nāgas summoned by the fury of cosmic order itself.
Far above, in the Brahma-loka, the Creator paused mid-thought. Brahma's expression turned solemn as he and Devi Sarasvati turned their gaze toward Svarga.
"Durvasa has cast a curse," Sarasvati whispered.
Her voice was soft, but it echoed like the toll of a cosmic bell.
Across the still waters of the Kṣīra Sāgara, Vaikuṇṭha remained serene. But above it, the sky had begun to darken.
Lord Vishnu stood at the edge of the celestial sea, watching as thunder rolled through Svarga. Lightning danced in spirals, wild and unrestrained. He exhaled slowly.
"Durvasa has spoken rashly again," he murmured, eyes narrowed. "And this time, Indra did not yield."
From behind him, soft footsteps approached. Lakṣmī joined him, her expression calm yet troubled.
"They both carry fire in their hearts," she said gently. "But neither sees the forest for the flame."
Vishnu's gaze remained fixed on the skies. "Indra speaks the truth, but his pride is sharp. Durvasa defends Dharma, yet his fury clouds its light."
Lakshmi lowered her eyes. "When sages and kings forget compassion, the world suffers. This curse will ripple far beyond Svarga."
Silence fell between them for a moment, long and heavy.
Then Lakshmi looked up at him again, her voice soft. "Will you intervene?"
Vishnu turned slightly. "Not yet. Let the storm pass. Let them see the cost of their choices."
"But if the Triloka must suffer again…" she began.
He nodded. "Then I will carry its burden, as I once did before."
Kailasha.
A tremor passed through the stillness of the sacred mountain. The silence of the snows stirred, not from wind, but from the subtle shift in dharma itself.
Upon his seat of stone and skin, Mahadeva opened his eyes. No wrath, no turmoil stirred within. Only a profound stillness remained. Yet beneath that stillness, there was knowing.
From within the sanctum, Devī Pārvatī stepped into the light. She stood beside her consort, her gaze drawn to the heavens, where the balance trembled.
"He was born of your tapas," she said gently, her tone neither accusing nor imploring. "Durvasa. He carries a spark of your being."
Shiva nodded once, slowly.
"He does," he said. "From my wrath, yes. But wrath unshaped is not destruction. It is only force."
Pārvatī turned toward him, her brows softly drawn.
"Then why let that force run wild? He disrupts the order. He speaks in anger, and his anger burns the innocent."
Shiva's gaze did not shift. It remained fixed on the distant heavens, where Svarga groaned under the weight of Rishi Durvasa's curse.
"Because," he replied, "what appears wild to us may still serve order."
His voice was low and grave, measured like the still breath before the Vedas were first spoken.
"Destruction is not a flaw in creation. It is a function of it. Without dissolution, there is no renewal. Without ruin, no revelation."
Paravati was silent for a moment. The wind stirred her veil as she considered his words.
"But still," she said, "he bears your essence. When he curses, the world recoils. Will he not turn the wheel too far?"
Shiva finally turned to her.
"Even the fiercest fire must find its course. Durvasa acts from dharma, even if he cannot yet see where his fire leads."
He paused.
"I do not restrain him. Not because I approve, but because the world must learn. Even from his fury. Even from pain."
Pārvatī's gaze softened. Yet in her eyes remained a trace of sadness.
"All fire returns to you in the end," she said.
Shiva gave a small nod. "As must all things. But before that, it must burn where it is meant to."
Thunder cracked across Svarga like a celestial war drum.
Boom.
Rishi Durvasa's hand rose, calm and unwavering. His finger extended toward Indra not as a threat, but as a seal of decree.
"By the power of tapas and the sovereignty of Rita," he intoned, his voice echoing through the celestial vault, "I pronounce this: You shall be cast from the throne of Svarga, O Indra."
A stunned hush fell upon the gathered assembly.
The Devas and Rishis instinctively drew back. Disbelief flickered in their eyes, mingled with apprehension and a trace of judgment none dared voice aloud.
Too far. Too sudden. Even for Durvasa.
And yet, no one moved. The words had been spoken. What is declared in the presence of Dharma cannot be undone by whim.
Above them, the clouds swirled as if Nature herself recoiled from the severity of the act. A divine force, shaped by ascetic will, cut through the heavens, unseen and irreversible.
Indra felt it the moment it struck. A shiver passed through his being. The mantle of kingship, the weight of Svarga, trembled upon his shoulders.
So this is how it happens. The fall ordained by Durvasa's wrath?
He exhaled slowly. Then smiled.
"…That's all?"
He raised his gaze, meeting the sage's storm-lit eyes without flinching.
"Hah."
His voice came soft, too soft to carry far, yet each word struck like thunder wrapped in silk.
"Very well. I accept your curse."
"But I will not take back a single syllable. Your vanity eclipses that of Hiranyaksha, and your obstinacy rivals even Hiranyakashipu. Were you born an Asura, Durvasa, the Lord Vishṇu you so revere would have ended your rampage long ago."
A humorless chuckle escaped him.
"To lose Svarga? Let it fall. Let someone else juggle its crown and weight."
Durvasa's nostrils flared. His fists clenched, the sacred kamaṇḍalu trembling in his grasp, its water swirling as if stirred by cosmic unrest.
"You… dare…"
Indra's expression sharpened, taunting and poised.
"Careful, Rishi. If you clench your fists any tighter, I may mistake it for a challenge. Perhaps you seek a proper kṣatriya duel?"
The sky dimmed further, as though the cosmos itself awaited Durvasa's reply.
"INDRA!" came the explosive bellow, cracking like the mountain's core.
But then a voice rang out.
"Enough."
It rose with clarity, measured and ageless.
Rishi Atri stepped forward, a figure of radiance and command. His eyes glowed not with anger, but with the fire of sacred discernment.
"Durvasa," he said, his voice firm as dharma itself, "you are a guardian of austerity, not its weapon."
His tone carried no disrespect. Only truth, ancient and immovable.
"Let not your penance burn that which it was meant to protect."
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