Durvāsa was walking along a road with a garland he had been given — flowers that did not wilt, the real thing, worth more than it looked.
Indra came the other way on Airāvata, his white elephant, at the head of everything.
And Durvāsa gave him the garland. Which, if you know anything about Durvāsa, is the surprising part of this story. He was not a man who gave people things.
Indra took it without getting down.
He was not being cruel. He was being king. He had been given a great many garlands. He reached out, took it, and — not knowing what else to do with it while riding — put it on the elephant's head.
The elephant did not care for the smell. He shook it off, and it landed in the road, and he trod on it.
Durvāsa stood in the road and watched it happen.
What he said was not really about a flower. He said: that was where good fortune was sitting, and you did not get down. And he cursed the three worlds to do without her.
Lakṣmī left. Not dramatically. Things simply stopped coming right — crops thinned, milk soured, people began to hold on to things, and nobody could say exactly when it had started.
The gods, weaker every year, lost their war. Viṣṇu told them what it would take to get her back, and they did not like it: churn the sea, and you cannot do it alone. You will have to ask the asuras to pull the other end.
So a mountain went in as the stick and Vāsuki agreed to be the rope, and gods and asuras stood at opposite ends of a snake and pulled, for a very long time, together.
A mountain, a snake, and two armies who could not stand each other, pulling for years — to undo one second of not paying attention.