King of Devas

Rishi Atri's gaze burned, not with wrath, but with the sanctified fire of insight forged across generations of ascetic truth-seekers. This was not a father's anger. It was the fury of a sage who had upheld dharma longer than kingdoms had endured, now awakened by its violation in his own son.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Each step rang through Svarga like thunder rolling across the heavens. The very air seemed to shudder as he advanced, every movement steeped in divine authority.

Rishi Durvasa turned, his expression sharp with surprise. His eyes locked with Atri's.

For a moment, they stood face to face, father and son. Anger burned in both gazes. One shimmered with youthful defiance, the other blazed with the grief of betrayed wisdom.

"Father," Durvasa said, his voice tight.

"Enough," Atri replied. His tone was steady, resonant, and final. It sliced through the celestial stillness like a blade through mist.

Silence fell.

In Atri's mind, memories rose unbidden. Durvasa's endless warnings. His suspicion of Indra. His constant refrain: "Indra's nature does not change. Beneath his humility, arrogance lies waiting."

And yet now… it was Durvasa who had become the very storm he once vowed to quell. The force of imbalance he had condemned in others now raged unchecked within himself.

Boom!

"Durvasa!" Atri roared, his voice imbued with the authority of an elder sage. "You've gone too far this time!"

Durvasa stood firm, the fire in his eyes undimmed. "I act in accordance with Dharma," he said, his tone swift and resolute. "I do not fear correction, even from you."

Atri's fists trembled. "So blind in your zeal, you cannot see the ruin you sow."

The clouds above churned like a great cosmic cauldron. Bright bolts of lightning cracked wildly. Temples shuddered under the weight of divine emotion. Rishis and Devas alike stood frozen, caught between reverence and dread.

"Durvasa!" Atri called out once more, no longer as a father, but as a Rishi invoking judgment.

Durvasa. Durvasa. Durvasa. His name reverberated across the skies, each echo laced with the heavy toll of karmic consequence.

From the ether, a radiant golden Kamandala shimmered into Atri's palm, brimming with Ganga-jala.

He dipped his fingers into the Kamandala.

Splash!

The blessed water cascaded down onto Durvasa, soaking his garments, drenching him in sacred reminder. His robes clung tightly to him, heavy and wet, each drop falling like the echo of unspoken repentance.

Durvasa stood motionless, defiant but silent.

Atri's voice thundered once more.

"You have dishonored the spirit of the Vedas. You have used your tapasya not as a light but as a weapon!"

"You curse in anger, not in discernment. You pass judgment without weighing justice. You burn others with your fury… and that same fire shall one day consume you."

He raised his hand, firm and unwavering.

"I do not revoke your name. I do not undo your deeds. But hear this truth. Rishi Durvasa, the day your anger strays from righteousness, that day, by the fire of your own fury, you shall be reduced to ashes."

Boom.

His words struck the heavens like a divine verdict. Thunder resounded across Svarga. Lightning slithered across the sky like celestial serpents, illuminating the strained faces of every witness.

Boom!

The tremor echoed through the very fabric of the cosmos.

Within the divine chamber of Brahmaloka, Brahma opened his eyes wide, unblinking. His gaze pierced through the veil of realms, locking onto the turbulence unfolding in Svarga.

He said nothing at first.

Beside him, Devi Sarasvati's eyes flickered with a curious glint. Her brows drew together in quiet concern.

"This is unprecedented," she murmured. "Atri… cursing his own son?"

Her voice, though calm, betrayed a rare note of disbelief.

Elsewhere…

In the endless, milk-white stretch of the Kshira Sāgara, Lord Viṣṇu sat upon the coils of Ananta Shesha, his form radiant yet still, like the eye of a storm in the vast churn of creation. A faint luminescence rippled through the divine ocean, reflecting the steady glow of the Sudarśana Cakra rotating at his fingertips.

He watched the vision spinning within Svarga, trembling beneath the weight of a father's curse and a son's defiance.

"Complications," he murmured, the word soft but filled with aeons of foresight.

The silence was gently pierced by a melodic voice that echoed like laughter through the void.

"Nārāyaṇa, Nārāyaṇa!"

Nārada Muni descended with his usual flourish, veena tucked under one arm, the other folded in a hasty gesture of reverence. His smile was bright. A little too bright. His steps were a little too quick.

Viṣṇu glanced sideways, the faintest smirk brushing his lips. "Narada," he said smoothly. "You showed Durvāsa the way to those statues, didn't you? A curious decision, even for you."

Nārada's chuckle came out thin. "He asked politely," he said, inching toward defensiveness. "And with a Rishi like Durvāsa… saying 'no' can be hazardous to one's afterlife. I merely… provided directions. Nothing more."

He clutched his veena a little tighter, eyes darting sideways.

"…Next time, I'm sending him to a dead end."

Before Viṣṇu could answer, the soft rustle of anklets chimed across the waves. Lakṣmī emerged, her steps as fluid as the moonlight over the ocean, eyes calm yet sharp with discernment.

"Nārada," she said gently, though her words bore the weight of wisdom. "Half-truths may pass for harmless wit when spoken to kings… but to someone like Durvāsa, they are fuel for storms. You know this."

Nārada bowed slightly, his mirth fading into sheepish humility. "It wasn't my intention to spark a fire. But it seems I've lit a torch in a field of ghee…"

Viṣṇu exhaled a soft breath, his gaze turning once more toward the trembling Svarga reflected in the Sudarśana.

"The flames have already caught," he said quietly. "And now… the winds of consequence have begun to blow."

Lakṣmī placed a hand upon his, steadying the turn of the cakra with her touch. "Then let fate guide it."

Nārada blinked and glanced at his vīṇā as though it might offer a musical answer.

"And if I may ask, Lord… what should I do next?"

Lakṣmī tilted her head ever so slightly, her voice calm.

"Perhaps," she said, "avoid telling impulsive sages where their fury might find kindling."

Viṣṇu chuckled quietly, but unmistakably.

"A sound recommendation," he said.

Nārada gave a low groan and sighed dramatically. "I suppose I'm off to tell Lord Shiva what happened."

Meanwhile, atop Mount Kailāsa, silence reigned.

The air was crisp and cold yet thick with tension. Lord Śiva sat unmoving, his gaze cast far beyond the horizon, far beyond time.

In his eyes danced neither rage nor peace but the deep weight of foresight.

Parvati, watching him closely, furrowed her brow.

"You've grown quiet, husband. What do you see?"

Shiva spoke slowly, his voice like the rumble of distant mountains.

"Durvasa's curse has torn a thread from the fabric of balance," he said. "What follows will not be mild. The Asuras will rise. Svarga will waver. And the Tri-Loka… will tremble."

Parvati's fingers curled around the edge of her seat, her worry deepening.

"And Atri's curse?" she asked. "It was severe… merciless, even. Will it come to pass?"

Shiva's gaze sharpened, yet his tone remained even.

"Every action has its consequence. Even a Rishi's curse must walk the path it carves. Atri spoke not in blind fury, but in burdened clarity."

He paused. "It is cause and effect. Nothing more. Nothing less."

And with that, Shiva closed his eyes once again, lost in the silence of what must be.

...

Indra Sabha– Svarga

Atri's chest rose and fell in heavy breaths. His hands were trembling, not from weakness, but from the storm of emotion raging inside him. The aftershock of the curse still echoed in his spirit. His son, his flesh and blood, had forced his hand… and now the heavens had felt it.

From the marble steps, a familiar voice broke the tension.

"You didn't have to go that far, you know."

It was Indra.

He stepped forward, calm as ever, with his usual half-lidded gaze and that unreadable smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He spared a glance toward Durvasa and then turned back to Atri with a shrug.

"I've never cared much for the throne," Indra said casually. "Let someone else sit on it. I've been cursed before. I'll survive."

He smirked.

"In fact, I might even sleep better without it. Let the next Asura King try his luck. We'll see how long he lasts under the weight of Triloka's Karma."

Rishi Atri's eyes widened. For a moment, the anger boiling within him seemed to subside. Slowly, he lowered his hands, exhaling deeply.

"…Such grace," he murmured. "To forgive even when wronged. You honor the dharma, Indra."

He brought his hands together in a respectful namaskara, head bowed ever so slightly.

"I lost control. My curse was born of fury… but you meet it with detachment. May your name shine forever in Svarga."

But the moment passed, and Atri's eyes turned once again to his son. The fire returned. His voice dropped, cold and commanding.

"Durvāsa."

His voice rang like a temple bell, deep, unwavering, and sharp with judgment. His gaze, steady as iron, bore into his son.

"Apologize. Retract your curse. Offer repentance to the King of Svarga. Do this and I shall alter the curse of mine."

Even divine curses, once spoken, could not be undone. But a Rishi of Atri's caliber could bind it with a conditional boon, soften the sentence if a path of atonement was followed.

Durvasa's eyes, however, blazed with defiance, not with childish petulance, but with that deep, consuming conviction that had always defined him.

His jaw was clenched. "Don't even think about it," he snapped.

The words echoed through the temple like the crack of a thunderclap.

Don't even think about it… Don't even think about it…

Without another word, Durvasa turned sharply on his heel, staff in hand, robes flowing like a storm behind him. He didn't so much as glance at his father. Nor at Indra.

Only silence remained in his wake.

Indra raised an eyebrow.

"Stubborn as ever," he muttered. "You'd need ten bulls to drag that pride out of him."

Atri's breathing turned ragged. His face was pale. His body swayed ever so slightly.

Just then, a soft but concerned voice called out.

"Father? What's happening here?"

Soma emerged, eyes wide with worry. He rushed to Atri's side, steadying him before he could fall.

Right behind him came Brihaspati and Tara, their steps hurried, their expressions confused.

"I was only gone a moment!" Brihaspati exclaimed. "I went to fetch Tara from Bhuloka, and when we returned, Svarga felt like it had been hit by a tidal wave of tapas!"

"What in the world's happened?" Tara asked, gripping her husband's arm.

Indra looked at them both and sighed.

"You missed a family drama," he said flatly. "The kind that will be remembered across eons."

---

A.N.: It is a curious trait of human nature: the very chaos we dread in our own households becomes irresistible when it unfolds in someone else's.

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