Despite Megha’s desperate pleas, Sage Durvasa stood firm like an unyielding mountain of fire. His reputation was well-known; his temper could make even the inhabitants of the celestial heavens tremble. To him, a mistake was simply a mistake, regardless of intent.
However, Megha, sensing the gravity of the moment, did not just plead—she spoke from the depths of her soul. She looked up at him, her eyes clear despite her fear.
"Lord," she whispered, her voice gaining strength, "I understand that the law of the universe demands a price for every action. But look at the tapestry of time. When you cursed Indra, it led to the churning of the ocean and the emergence of divine gifts. When you cursed Hanuman, it guided him to the feet of Lord Rama. You are not merely a bringer of anger; you are an instrument through which destiny moves its heaviest pieces. Perhaps my mistake, too, is part of a design I cannot yet see."
The air, which had been crackling with heat, began to cool. Durvasa’s eyes, once ablaze, settled into a thoughtful simmer. Before him stood not just a "vile maiden," but a princess endowed with the wisdom of a scholar and the heart of a devotee.
Slowly, the sage reached out and placed a heavy, weathered hand upon Megha’s head. The gesture was surprisingly tender.
"My daughter," he said, his voice no longer a thunderclap but a deep rumble, "do not let your heart be heavy. A word once spoken by a sage cannot be taken back—the curse must find its mark. But it can be reshaped."
Megha bowed her head, her forehead touching the cool sand at his feet. "Lord," she pleaded, "if I must fade, let it not be in vain. Let my sacrifice cause no pain to those I love. Only allow me to find my way back to them."
Durvasa closed his eyes, searching the currents of time. When he opened them, his expression was one of solemn mercy. "You shall not vanish forever. I grant you this: you may entrust your strength and your memories to another. Your physical form will dissolve into these waters, but you will not be lost. In a hundred years, when the cycle turns and your Master returns, you shall rise again. You will be born anew, and on your tenth birthday, the veil will lift. Your strength and your past will return to you like a forgotten dream."
A bittersweet smile touched Megha’s lips. She knew exactly where her spirit belonged.
"Then I leave my strength and my soul's journey to my sister, Vidhi," Megha declared, her voice ringing out over the crashing waves. "And when my elder sister, Krishnapriya, returns from her long path of knowledge, she too shall hold my memory. This is the promise of Megha, Princess of Varunaprastha."
With a final, lingering look at the world she loved—the green grass where Sugriva stood and the golden sun that witnessed her prayers—Megha turned toward the sea.
She walked into the surf, the water first chilling her ankles, then rising to her waist, and finally to her heart. She didn’t flinch. With her hands folded in prayer and the name of the Divine on her lips, she walked until the blue depths rose over her head. The ripples smoothed over, and she was gone.
The shore was silent. Sage Durvasa, the man feared by gods, stood alone in the sand. He bowed deeply to the Sun God, his anger entirely replaced by a quiet, meditative respect for the princess who had transformed a curse into a bridge for the future.
