The Secret of the Silent Tongue
The Arrival of the Mystery Guest
The sun was a giant golden coin hanging over the city of Agra. Inside the Red Fort, the air was filled with the scent of roasting cardamom and the sound of splashing fountains. Emperor Akbar sat upon his Peacock Throne, his silk robes shimmering like the neck of a pigeon.
Suddenly, the heavy sandalwood doors of the court creaked open. A tall man with a snowy white beard and a turban as blue as the midnight sky walked in. He didn't bow like the others; he stood tall and confident.
"Jahanpanah! King of Kings!" the man cried out. "I have traveled from the snowy peaks of the Himalayas to the salty shores of the south. I have studied under a thousand teachers. People call me the 'Master of All Tongues' because I speak every language on Earth as if I were born to it."
Akbar leaned forward, intrigued. "Every language? Surely that is impossible."
The Pundit began to speak. First, he spoke in a language that sounded like the singing of birds (Persian). Then, he shifted to words that felt as smooth as flowing water (Sanskrit). He spoke the harsh, rhythmic tones of the mountain tribes and the soft, musical dialects of the coastal fishermen.
For three hours, the ministers questioned him. They spoke to him in Marathi, Bengali, Arabic, and Turkish. No matter the language, the Pundit answered perfectly. He had no accent. He made no mistakes.
"I have a challenge for your famous 'Nine Gems,'" the Pundit said with a smug smile. "If any man in this court can tell me what my true mother tongue is—the language my mother spoke to me in my cradle—I shall bow to you. But if you fail by tomorrow morning, you must admit that I am the wisest man in the Empire!"
The Midnight Mission
Akbar looked at his ministers. They were all scratching their heads. They were brilliant men, but the Pundit was too perfect. Finally, Akbar looked at Birbal.
Birbal didn't look worried. He was calmly nibbling on a piece of sugar-coated fennel. "Give me until sunrise, Majesty," Birbal whispered.
That night, the palace was silent. The only sound was the clack-clack of the guards’ spears on the stone floor. Birbal did not go to sleep. Instead, he dressed in dark clothes and slipped through the shadows like a cat. He reached the guest chambers where the Pundit was sleeping soundly, dreaming of his victory.
Birbal crept to the side of the bed. He pulled out a long, dried blade of yellow grass. With a mischievous grin, he reached out and began to tickle the Pundit’s right ear.
The Pundit shifted in his sleep and grunted.
Birbal then moved the grass to the Pundit’s nose. He tickled it gently. Twitch, twitch. The Pundit’s nose wrinkled.
Finally, Birbal blew a tiny puff of air into the Pundit’s ear and tickled the very inside of it.
The Pundit snapped awake! He didn't see Birbal, who had ducked behind a heavy velvet curtain. Startled and annoyed, the Pundit shouted into the dark room:
"Evaru adi? Naaku nidra pattadam ledu! Em jarugutundi?"
Birbal smiled in the dark. He had heard exactly what he needed. He quietly slipped out of the room and went home to get some sleep.
The Reveal
The next morning, the court was packed. People had traveled from all over Agra to see the Master of All Tongues win his prize. The Pundit stood before the throne, looking very proud.
"Well?" the Pundit asked. "Has the Great Birbal found an answer, or must I take my prize?"
Birbal stepped forward and bowed to the Emperor. "Majesty, our guest is indeed a brilliant man. He speaks many languages with his head. But last night, I heard him speak with his heart. Our guest’s mother tongue is Telugu."
The Pundit’s face turned from white to red to a dusty purple. His jaw dropped. "How... how could you possibly know? I haven't spoken Telugu in this city for twenty years!"
Birbal chuckled. "It is simple, Majesty. A man can learn a thousand languages to impress others. He can practice his accent until it is perfect. But when a man is in pain, when he is startled, or when he is suddenly woken from a deep sleep, he forgets his training. In a moment of distress, a man always calls out in the language of his home—the language his mother used to sing him to sleep."
The Pundit bowed low to Birbal. "I thought I was the wisest, but I see that your wit is sharper than my studies."
Akbar was so pleased that he gave Birbal a string of pearls, and the Pundit stayed at the court for many weeks, teaching Birbal a few new words in Telugu.
The Moral of the Story
"Truth cannot be hidden forever. No matter how much we pretend or how many 'masks' we wear, our true nature always reveals itself in times of difficulty or surprise."
The Giant Pumpkin and the Pot of Wisdom
The kingdom was buzzing with excitement. A royal messenger had arrived from the far-off land of Persia, riding a magnificent black horse. He carried a letter sealed with golden wax. Emperor Akbar opened the scroll and frowned.
The King of Persia had heard of Akbar’s fame and wanted to test him. The letter read: “I have heard that your kingdom is the wealthiest in the world, not in gold, but in wisdom. My palace is currently lacking in this area. Please, send us a ‘Pot of Wisdom’ to help our ministers think better. If you cannot, we shall assume your cleverness is just a rumor.”
Akbar looked at the empty hall. "A Pot of Wisdom?" he muttered. "Wisdom is not a soup! It is not a spice! How can one put it in a pot and send it across the desert?"
The ministers whispered among themselves. One suggested sending a pot full of ancient books. Another suggested filling a jar with precious gems. But Akbar shook his head. "Books are information, not wisdom. And gems are just stones."
Finally, Birbal stepped forward. "Jahanpanah, do not worry. Give me one earthen pot and two months of time. I will grow the wisdom myself."
The Secret Garden
Birbal took a small, narrow-necked clay pot to his own garden. He didn't fill it with gold or scrolls. Instead, he went to his vegetable patch where pumpkin vines were stretching across the soil like green snakes.
He found a tiny, baby pumpkin—no bigger than a marble—that was still attached to its vine. Carefully, without breaking the stem, he slipped the tiny pumpkin through the narrow neck of the clay pot.
"What are you doing, Father?" his daughter asked, watching him place the pot on the ground.
"I am capturing wisdom," Birbal replied with a wink.
Every day for several weeks, Birbal tended to that vine. He gave it the best water and the richest soil. Protected inside the clay walls, the pumpkin grew and grew. Because it was inside the pot, it took the exact shape of the jar. It stretched until it pressed against the clay sides. It was now a giant pumpkin, perfectly trapped inside a small-necked pot.
The Challenge to Persia
After two months, Birbal carefully snipped the vine. He cleaned the outside of the pot until it shone. He then brought it to Akbar’s court, covered in a beautiful silk cloth.
"Here is the wisdom, Majesty," Birbal announced.
Akbar looked inside. He saw the massive fruit filling every inch of the jar. "It’s a pumpkin, Birbal. How is this wisdom?"
"The wisdom is not the fruit, Majesty," Birbal explained. "The wisdom is in the challenge. We shall send this to the King of Persia with a specific instruction."
The pot was sent to Persia with a note that said: “Here is the wisdom you requested. You may have it for free. However, there is one condition: You must remove the wisdom from the pot without breaking the pot and without cutting the fruit. If you can do this, the wisdom is yours. If you cannot, you must admit that wisdom is something that cannot be easily taken.”
The King’s Realization
When the King of Persia received the gift, he spent three days staring at it. He tried to pull the pumpkin out, but the neck of the jar was too small. He tried to shake it, but it wouldn't budge. He realized that to get the pumpkin out, he would have to smash the beautiful pot or slice the fruit into pieces.
He started to laugh. "I see now!" he told his court. "Birbal has shown me that wisdom is like this pumpkin. It grows within a person over time. You cannot simply pull it out of someone else and keep it for yourself without destroying the very thing you are looking for."
The King sent the pot back to Akbar with many gifts of silk and spices, admitting that Akbar’s court was indeed the wisest in the world.
The Moral of the Story
"True wisdom cannot be borrowed, bought, or stolen. It is something that must be grown with patience and care. Additionally, a clever mind can find a solution to even the most impossible-sounding problems."
The Great Feathered Census
The summer heat in Agra was intense. To escape the sun, Emperor Akbar and Birbal were walking along the terrace of the palace, which overlooked the sparkling Yamuna River. Thousands of crows were cawing and circling the city, landing on the red sandstone walls and the branches of the neem trees.
Akbar, who loved to test Birbal’s quick thinking with random questions, pointed a royal finger at a group of crows perched on a nearby balcony.
"Birbal," the Emperor said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "you claim to know everything about my kingdom. Tell me, exactly how many crows are there in the city of Agra at this very moment?"
The other ministers, who had been following at a distance, began to snicker. "How can anyone count birds?" they whispered. "They fly away the moment you look at them! This time, Birbal is trapped."
The False Counters
Akbar gave Birbal one week to find the answer. During that week, the other ministers tried to look busy to impress the Emperor.
One minister hired a hundred servants to stand on every rooftop in the city with notebooks. "Count every black wing you see!" he commanded. But by noon, the servants were dizzy. "Is that the same crow from the North gate, or a new one from the South?" they argued.
Another minister tried to lure all the crows to one spot by spreading tons of grain in the palace courtyard. Thousands of birds descended in a black cloud, but they fought and flapped so much that the minister lost count after ten. He ended up covered in feathers and birdseed, looking very foolish.
Birbal, however, did nothing of the sort. He spent his week sitting by the river, sipping cold sherbet and watching the clouds.
The Day of the Answer
On the seventh day, the court was packed. Akbar sat on his throne and called Birbal forward. "Well, Birbal? The city is large and the crows are many. Have you finished your census?"
Birbal bowed low, his expression perfectly serious. "I have, Jahanpanah. After a very careful and exhausting study, I can tell you the exact number."
The court went silent. You could hear a pin drop on the marble floor.
"There are exactly ninety-five thousand, four hundred and sixty-three crows in Agra," Birbal announced.
Akbar leaned back, stunned. "Ninety-five thousand, four hundred and sixty-three? Are you absolutely certain? What if I have my guards go out and count them right now and the number is different?"
The Clever Escape
Birbal smiled calmly. "If your guards find more than that number, Majesty, it is very simple: it means that some crows are visiting their relatives from the neighboring kingdoms of Delhi and Jaipur."
The Emperor raised an eyebrow. "And if there are fewer crows?"
"Then it is also simple," Birbal replied. "It means some of our crows have gone on a summer vacation to visit their grandparents in the countryside!"
Akbar stared at Birbal for a moment, then burst into a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the halls. He realized that since it was impossible for anyone to prove the number wrong, Birbal had given the only perfect answer.
"You have won again, Birbal!" Akbar cried. "You turned a ridiculous question into a lesson on wit." He rewarded Birbal with a chest of gold coins—which, ironically, were much easier to count than crows.
The Moral of the Story
"Some questions are designed only to trap you. When faced with an impossible task or a trick question, use your wit to find a logical—and humorous—way out. You don't always need a calculator to find the 'right' answer; sometimes you just need a clever mind."
The Mystery of the Golden Mangoes
The royal orchards of Emperor Akbar were famous throughout the land. They grew pomegranates as red as rubies and grapes as sweet as honey. But the Emperor’s pride and joy was a single, ancient tree that grew "Golden Mangoes." These mangoes were so yellow they looked like they were made of solid gold, and only the Emperor was allowed to eat them.
One of the court ministers, a man named Rajat who was very jealous of Birbal, hatched a wicked plan. One night, he sneaked into the orchard, plucked a Golden Mango, and hid it inside a silk bag. He then crept into Birbal’s house while Birbal was at the palace and tucked the bag under Birbal’s bed.
The next morning, Rajat ran into the court, crying, "Majesty! Disaster! A Golden Mango has been stolen from the sacred tree! And I have heard a rumor that the thief is someone we all trust very dearly."
The Search for the Thief
Akbar was furious. "Search every house in the city! Start with the houses of my ministers. No one is above the law!"
When the guards reached Birbal’s house, they found the silk bag under his bed. They brought it back to the court. The room went silent as Akbar looked at the mango, then at Birbal.
"Birbal," Akbar said, his voice cold. "How did this get into your home? I thought you were my most honest friend."
Birbal looked at the mango and then at the smirking Rajat. He knew he had been framed. "Majesty," Birbal said calmly, "I did not take the mango. But I can prove who is truly honest in this room. I have a 'Magic Seed' from a holy land. If we plant it today, it will grow into a new Golden Mango tree by tomorrow—but there is a catch."
The Magic Seed Challenge
Akbar was curious. "A catch? What is it?"
Birbal held up a small, ordinary-looking mango seed. "This seed will only grow if it is planted by a hand that has never told a lie, never cheated, and never taken something that didn't belong to them. If a dishonest person touches it to the soil, the seed will turn into a poisonous weed."
Birbal turned to the Royal Priest. "Holy sir, you are the most spiritual among us. Please, plant the seed."
The Priest turned pale. He coughed and stepped back. "I... well... when I was a boy, I once took a copper coin from the temple to buy a sweet. I am not pure enough."
Birbal turned to the General of the Army. "Surely you, who fights for the truth, can plant it?"
The General looked at his boots. "In the heat of battle, I once claimed I defeated ten men when it was actually only eight. I cannot risk the poisonous weed."
One by one, every minister made an excuse. Even Rajat, the thief, was terrified. If he planted it and it didn't grow, his lie would be obvious. Finally, Birbal looked at Emperor Akbar.
The Lesson of the Emperor
"Majesty," Birbal said softly, "you are the Shadow of God on Earth. Surely your hands are pure enough to plant the magic seed."
Akbar sighed and looked at the floor. "Even I, Birbal, have told small lies in my youth to my father. I am a man, and no man is perfectly without sin."
Birbal bowed low. "Then I ask you, Jahanpanah: If the Priest, the General, the Ministers, and even the Great Emperor admit they are not perfectly honest, why is only Birbal being sent to the gallows for a single mango? If none of us are perfect, how can we be so quick to judge?"
Akbar realized the wisdom in Birbal's words. He looked at Rajat, who was shaking with fear. Rajat fell to his knees and confessed that he had stolen the mango to frame Birbal.
Akbar punished Rajat by making him work in the orchards for a year, and he apologized to Birbal. "You have taught me that justice must be tempered with the understanding that we all have flaws," Akbar said.
The Moral of the Story
"Before you point a finger at someone else’s mistakes, look at your own hands. No one is perfect, and it is easy to accuse others while ignoring our own faults. True honesty starts with admitting your own weaknesses."
The Brahmin and the Winter Fire
It was the peak of winter in Agra. The wind blew cold from the mountains, turning the water in the palace fountains into shards of ice. Emperor Akbar sat wrapped in heavy woolens and silk quilts, huddled near a large charcoal heater.
"Birbal," Akbar said, shivering, "man is a strange creature. I believe a man will do anything, even the impossible, if the reward is great enough. Do you think a man would stand in the freezing cold water of the palace pond all night just for money?"
Birbal thought for a moment. "Majesty, hunger is a powerful force. A man who needs to feed his family will endure much more than a cold pond."
Akbar made an announcement: "Any man who can stand chest-deep in the royal pond from sunset until sunrise shall receive a bag of two thousand gold coins!"
The Brave Farmer
A poor Brahmin farmer, whose family had not eaten a full meal in weeks, stepped forward. "I will do it, Jahanpanah," he said, his voice trembling as much from hunger as from the cold.
The sun set, and the farmer stepped into the dark, icy water. The guards watched from the shore, wrapped in thick coats. The farmer’s teeth chattered, and his skin turned blue. He looked toward the palace and saw a small, flickering lamp in a distant window. He fixed his eyes on that tiny light and began to pray.
Hour after hour passed. The moon rose and set. Finally, the first rays of the sun hit the water. The farmer, shivering so hard he could barely walk, climbed out of the pond. He had done it!
The Emperor’s Trick
The farmer went to the court to claim his prize. Akbar was impressed, but a jealous courtier whispered in the Emperor’s ear.
"Majesty," the courtier said, "how did he survive? He must have cheated."
Akbar asked the farmer, "How did you stay in that freezing water all night?"
The farmer replied honestly, "Majesty, I kept my eyes fixed on a small lamp in your palace window. The thought of my family kept me going."
"Aha!" Akbar cried. "You were warmed by the heat of that lamp! That is cheating. You received warmth from the fire of the lamp, so you did not truly stay in the cold. Guards, send him away with nothing!"
The poor farmer left the court in tears. He went straight to Birbal’s house and told him the story.
The Cooking Lesson
The next day, Birbal did not come to court. Akbar waited and waited, but there was no sign of his friend. Finally, the Emperor decided to go to Birbal's house himself.
He found Birbal in his garden. Birbal had built a small fire on the ground. High above the fire—at least five feet in the air—Birbal had tied a cooking pot to a tall bamboo pole.
"Birbal, what are you doing?" Akbar asked, laughing. "Have you lost your mind?"
"I am cooking khichdi (rice), Majesty," Birbal said calmly.
"You fool!" Akbar shouted. "How can the heat from that tiny fire reach a pot that is five feet in the air? The rice will never cook!"
Birbal looked at the Emperor with a twinkle in his eye. "Majesty, if a poor farmer in a freezing pond can be warmed by the tiny glow of a lamp a mile away in the palace window... then surely this fire can cook my rice from only five feet away?"
Akbar stood silent. He realized how unfair he had been. The heat of a distant lamp could never warm a man in a cold pond; it was only the man’s willpower that kept him alive.
The Emperor immediately summoned the farmer to the palace and gave him his two thousand gold coins, plus a beautiful new house for his family.
The Moral of the Story
"It is easy to find excuses to be unfair, but true justice requires looking at the facts with common sense. Hope and willpower can help a person endure anything, but we should never belittle the hard work and sacrifice of others."
Story 6: The Mystery of the Shrunken Stick
The city of Agra was famous for its busy markets, but none was busier than the Diamond Bazaar. One evening, a wealthy merchant named Seth Lalchand came running to the palace, breathless and weeping. He was one of the Emperor's most loyal taxpayers, and someone had committed a daring crime in his home.
"Jahanpanah!" he cried, falling to the floor. "I have been robbed! A chest containing fifty rare pearls and a handful of rubies has been stolen from my bedroom. The locks were not broken, and the windows were bolted. It must have been one of my own servants!"
Akbar’s brow furrowed. "A thief inside the house is like a thorn in the foot. Birbal, you must solve this. If the servants are the suspects, we must find the guilty one before they sell the jewels and disappear."
The Gathering of the Servants
Birbal accompanied Lalchand to his mansion. He gathered all ten servants in the courtyard. There was the cook, the gardener, the stable boy, the housekeepers, and the gatekeeper. They all looked terrified, whispering among themselves and swearing their innocence.
Birbal didn't shout. He didn't threaten them with the dungeon. Instead, he smiled and said, "I have just returned from a journey to the mountains, where a Great Sage gave me a set of 'Justice Sticks.' These sticks are enchanted with the power of truth."
He went to his carriage and brought out ten wooden sticks. To the naked eye, they looked like ordinary pieces of bamboo, exactly the same length.
The Enchantment
Birbal handed one stick to each servant. "Tonight, you will sleep with these sticks under your pillows. They are very sensitive to the vibration of a lie. By tomorrow morning, the stick belonging to the person who stole the jewels will have grown exactly two inches longer."
The servants took the sticks and went to their rooms. The merchant was confused. "Birbal, how can wood grow like a tree overnight?"
"Wait until tomorrow, Lalchand," Birbal whispered. "Magic works in mysterious ways on a guilty heart."
The Night of Fear
Nine of the servants went to sleep quickly, knowing they had done nothing wrong. But the tenth servant—the one who had hidden the pearls inside a sack of flour in the kitchen—could not close his eyes.
He pulled the stick out from under his pillow and stared at it in the moonlight. "If it grows two inches, everyone will know! I will be hanged!" He panicked. "But wait... if I am clever, I can beat the magic. If I cut exactly two inches off the stick right now, then when it 'grows' two inches tonight, it will return to its original size by morning!"
He took a small kitchen knife and carefully measured two inches. He sawed off the end of the wood and hid the scrap in the fire. "Now," he thought, "I am safe."
The Reveal
The next morning, the servants lined up in front of Akbar and Birbal at the palace. Birbal asked each man to hold his stick out in front of him.
Birbal walked down the line, barely looking at their faces. Suddenly, he stopped in front of the thief. He took the man’s stick and compared it to the others. It was two inches shorter than the rest.
"Here is your thief!" Birbal announced.
The servant fell to his knees, trembling. "But... but you said it would grow! I only cut it because I thought—" He stopped, realizing he had walked right into a trap.
"The sticks are not magic, you foolish man," Birbal said. "But your guilt is. You were so afraid of the stick growing that you shortened it yourself. A man who is honest sleeps like a lion, but a thief is always looking for a saw."
The pearls were recovered, the merchant was happy, and the thief was sent to the palace dungeons to think about his "magic" stick.
The Moral of the Story
"A guilty conscience needs no accuser. Fear of being caught often leads a dishonest person to make mistakes that reveal the truth. Honesty is the only path to a peaceful night's sleep."
Story 7: The Most Beautiful Child in the World
The palace gardens were a riot of color. Peacocks spread their emerald tails, and the scent of blooming jasmine hung heavy in the air. Emperor Akbar sat in a marble pavilion, watching his young grandson play. The little prince was dressed in silk and pearls, his hair smelling of rosewater.
"Look at him, Birbal," Akbar said, his heart full of pride. "Is he not the most perfect creature ever born? His skin is like cream, his eyes like stars. Surely, there is no child in this entire empire, from the highest mountains to the deepest valleys, who is more beautiful than my grandson."
The courtiers immediately began to compete with each other to praise the prince. "He is a moon among clouds!" cried one. "He is a lotus in a pond of mud!" cried another.
But Birbal remained silent, a small, knowing smile on his face.
"You say nothing, Birbal?" Akbar asked, slightly annoyed. "Do you disagree? Do you think there is a child more beautiful than the royal prince?"
Birbal bowed. "Majesty, beauty is a tricky thing. It does not live on the face; it lives in the eyes of the person who is looking. To every mother, her own child is the most beautiful thing in the universe, even if the rest of the world sees something different."
Akbar challenged him. "If you truly believe that, then prove it. Go out into the city. Find me a child who is more beautiful than my grandson. If you cannot, you must admit that my grandson is the undisputed king of beauty!"
The Search in the Shadows
Birbal accepted the challenge. He spent the entire day wandering through the streets of Agra. He visited the homes of rich merchants, the villas of noblemen, and the houses of artists. He saw many pretty children with silken hair and bright eyes, but he kept walking.
Finally, as the sun began to set, Birbal reached the poorest outskirts of the city, where the workers lived in small huts made of mud and straw.
The next morning, Birbal returned to the palace. He was alone.
"Well?" Akbar asked, leaning forward on his throne. "Where is this 'most beautiful child'? Did you find one?"
"I did, Jahanpanah," Birbal replied. "But the child is so precious that the mother refuses to let him out into the sunlight. She fears the 'evil eye' of the public. If you wish to see him, you must come with me in disguise."
The Muddy Truth
Akbar, curious and excited, put on a plain brown cloak and followed Birbal. They walked deep into the slums until they reached a small, dusty courtyard. There, sitting in a puddle of mud, was a small child.
The child’s clothes were rags. His face was smeared with soot and dirt. His hair was a tangled mess, and he was screaming at the top of his lungs because he had dropped a piece of dry bread in the dust. To anyone passing by, the child looked quite plain, perhaps even a bit messy and unattractive.
Akbar whispered, "Birbal, is this a joke? We have traveled all this way to see this? This child is dirty, his face is red from crying, and he is certainly not beautiful. Why are we here?"
Just then, the mother of the child—a poor woman who had been washing clothes—heard the cry. She dropped her work and ran to the child. She didn't see the dirt. She didn't see the soot.
She scooped the muddy boy into her arms, kissed his dirty cheeks a hundred times, and cried out with pure joy, "Oh, my little piece of the sun! My diamond! My angel! You are the most beautiful, perfect, and wonderful child in the whole wide world! I am the luckiest mother to have such a handsome son!"
The Realization
Akbar stood frozen. He saw the way the mother’s eyes glowed when she looked at her muddy son. It was the exact same way Akbar’s own eyes glowed when he looked at his grandson.
Birbal turned to the Emperor. "Do you see, Majesty? To you, your grandson is the most beautiful because he is yours. To this woman, her son is the most beautiful because he is hers. Love is the magic that turns a muddy face into a masterpiece."
Akbar laughed softly and took off his royal ring, handing it to Birbal to give to the mother. "You have taught me a great lesson, Birbal. Pride sees only what it wants to see, but love sees beauty everywhere."
The Moral of the Story
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. We should never judge others or think we are superior, for every person is precious to someone. Love is the truest lens through which to see the world."
Story 8: The Gardener and the Shadow of Ill-Luck
The dawn was breaking over Agra, painting the sky in shades of violet and orange. Emperor Akbar, feeling refreshed, decided to take an early morning walk through the royal gardens. He loved the smell of the damp earth and the sound of the peacocks waking up.
As he turned a sharp corner near the rose bushes, he bumped straight into the royal gardener, a humble man named Ramu. Ramu was carrying a heavy basket of kitchen waste and dry leaves to the compost pit. Startled by the sudden appearance of the Emperor, Ramu dropped his basket, spilling old vegetable peels right at Akbar's feet.
"Forgive me, Jahanpanah!" Ramu cried, bowing so low his forehead touched the grass.
Akbar, usually kind, was in a strange mood. He brushed off his silk slippers and continued his walk. However, an hour later, while climbing the palace stairs, Akbar tripped on his own robe and bruised his knee badly. At lunch, he found a tiny pebble in his rice that chipped a tooth. By the afternoon, a messenger arrived with news that a precious shipment of silk had been lost at sea.
"This is too much!" Akbar roared, clutching his aching jaw. "Ever since I saw that gardener’s face this morning, everything has gone wrong. He is a walking curse! He is an ill-omen!"
In his anger, Akbar ordered that Ramu be arrested and hanged the very next morning to "clear the bad luck" from the kingdom.
The Prisoner’s Visitor
When Birbal heard the news, he was deeply troubled. He knew Ramu was a hard-working man and that "luck" had nothing to do with bruised knees or chipped teeth. He visited Ramu in the cold stone dungeon.
The gardener was weeping. "Birbal Sahab, I only wanted to clean the garden. Now I am to die because the Emperor had a bad day."
Birbal leaned in and whispered, "Do not lose heart, Ramu. When you are standing on the gallows tomorrow and the Emperor asks for your final wish, I want you to say exactly what I tell you."
The Final Wish
The next morning, a large crowd gathered. Akbar sat on a platform, looking stern. Ramu stood with the rope around his neck.
"Ramu," Akbar said, "before you pay for your ill-luck, do you have a final wish?"
Ramu took a deep breath. "Majesty, I have a final message for the people of Agra. You have declared me a 'Bad Omen' because you saw my face and had a day of small accidents. But look at me! I saw your face the first thing this morning, and my luck was so much worse than yours. After seeing your face, I lost my freedom, I was thrown in a hole, and now I am losing my very life!"
Ramu looked at the crowd. "I ask you all—who is the bigger ill-omen? The gardener who caused a bruised knee, or the King whose face brings death to a poor man?"
The Emperor's Shame
The crowd went deathly silent. Akbar felt as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown on him. He looked at Birbal, who was standing quietly in the corner. He realized that his superstition was not only foolish but also cruel.
If Ramu’s face brought "bad luck," then Akbar's face had brought the worst luck imaginable to the gardener.
Akbar stood up and signaled the guards to release Ramu. "You are right, Ramu," Akbar said, his voice soft with regret. "It is my own anger that was the bad omen today, not you."
Akbar gave Ramu a gift of a hundred gold coins and a new plot of land. He then turned to Birbal and thanked him for saving him from committing a terrible mistake.
The Moral of the Story
"Superstition is a shadow that disappears when you turn on the light of logic. We should never blame others for our own misfortunes or believe in 'bad omens.' Treat everyone with justice, for what we call 'luck' is often just the result of our own actions."
Story 9: The Heaviest Weight in the World
The rainy season had arrived in Agra. Huge, dark clouds rolled across the sky, and the sound of thunder shook the palace walls. Emperor Akbar was sitting in the high balcony, watching his elephants struggle to pull heavy marble slabs through the mud for a new monument.
"Look at those poor beasts," Akbar remarked to Birbal. "They are the strongest creatures on earth, yet even they groan under the weight of those stones. It makes me wonder, Birbal—what is the truly heaviest thing in this world? Is it a mountain? Is it a mountain of lead? Or is it the burden of a kingdom?"
The court ministers, always trying to sound wise, began to offer their opinions. "It is the Himalayas, Majesty!" cried one. "No, it is the giant anchors of the sea-faring ships!" said another. "I believe it is a bag of gold that one cannot carry alone," joked a third.
Birbal shook his head. "None of these are the heaviest, Jahanpanah. A mountain is heavy, but the earth carries it easily. A stone is heavy, but an elephant can move it. The heaviest thing in the world is something a man carries inside his heart."
Akbar was intrigued. "And what is that, Birbal? Can you show me this weight?"
The Test of the Three Men
Birbal asked the Emperor for one week. He went out into the city and found three different men.
The first was a Weightlifter, famous for carrying huge logs on his back. The second was a Greedy Merchant, who was the richest man in the bazaar but never gave a single copper to the poor. The third was a Guilty Thief, who had stolen a necklace but had not yet been caught.
Birbal invited them to the palace. He told the weightlifter to lift a massive boulder. The man groaned, his muscles bulged, and he lifted it high. After a minute, he set it down, wiped his brow, and smiled. "I am tired, but I am happy!" he said.
Then, Birbal called the Greedy Merchant. He didn't give him a stone. He gave him a small, empty wooden box. "This box represents all the gold you have yet to earn," Birbal said. "Carry it around the courtyard three times."
The merchant walked, but he looked miserable. He was constantly looking over his shoulder, worried someone would steal the box, and complaining that it wasn't full enough. Even though the box was light, he looked more exhausted than the weightlifter.
Finally, Birbal called the Thief. He gave him nothing to carry. "Just walk across the room," Birbal said. The thief walked, but his knees shook. Every time a guard shifted his spear, the thief jumped. He looked as though he were carrying a mountain on his shoulders.
The Explanation
Birbal turned to Akbar. "Majesty, you saw the weightlifter. He carried a real stone, but when he put it down, his heart was light. But look at the merchant and the thief."
He pointed to the merchant. "He carries the weight of Greed. No matter how much he has, the weight of wanting more crushes his spirit. It is a burden he can never put down."
Then he pointed to the thief. "And he carries the weight of Guilt. It has no physical size, yet it is so heavy it makes his legs tremble. He carries it to sleep, he carries it when he eats, and it weighs more than any marble slab your elephants pull."
Akbar looked at the men and realized the truth. A physical weight only tires the body, but a mental burden tires the soul.
"You are right, Birbal," Akbar said. "The heaviest weight is a troubled conscience and an unsatisfied heart."
The Moral of the Story
"Physical burdens can be set down, but the weights we carry in our minds—like greed, guilt, and worry—are the heaviest of all. To live a light and happy life, one must keep their heart clean and be content with what they have."
Story 10: The Merchant, the Farmer, and the Water Debt
The summer sun was beating down on the village of Chandanpur, just outside the city of Agra. The ground was cracked, and the crops were thirsting for a single drop of rain. In this village lived a simple, hardworking farmer named Madhav.
Madhav had saved every copper coin he earned for ten years to buy a well from his neighbor, a cunning merchant named Shantilal. Finally, the deal was done. Madhav paid three hundred gold coins, signed the papers, and became the owner of the deep, stone-lined well at the edge of his field.
The next morning, Madhav arrived at the well with his wooden bucket and a long rope, his heart full of joy. But as he went to lower the bucket, a hand grabbed his arm. It was Shantilal.
"Stop!" the merchant hissed, a crooked smile on his face. "What do you think you are doing?"
"I am drawing water for my thirsty cows," Madhav replied, confused. "I bought this well from you yesterday."
Shantilal laughed, a cold and dry sound. "You bought the well, Madhav. You did not buy the water. The stones, the bricks, and the hole in the ground belong to you. But the water inside? That is mine. If you want a single drop, you must pay me ten silver coins for every bucket!"
The Cry for Justice
Poor Madhav was devastated. He had spent all his money on the well and had nothing left to buy the water. He pleaded and begged, but the merchant was heartless.
Madhav traveled to the Red Fort in Agra and fell at the feet of Emperor Akbar. Through his tears, he explained the trickery. Akbar’s eyes flashed with anger. "This is a mockery of the law!" he declared. He turned to Birbal. "Birbal, this merchant is using words like a spider uses a web. Clear this web and give this farmer his justice."
Birbal’s Clever Trap
The next day, the merchant Shantilal was summoned to the court. He arrived looking very confident, wearing silk robes and carrying the contract of sale.
"Shantilal," Birbal said smoothly, "is it true that you sold the well to this farmer but kept the water for yourself?"
"It is perfectly true, Wise Birbal," the merchant replied, bowing. "The contract clearly says 'Well.' It says nothing about the 'Water.' According to the law, I am the owner of the liquid, and he is the owner of the stone."
Birbal nodded thoughtfully. "I see. You are a very strict follower of the law. And since the water belongs to you, you have every right to keep it. However..." Birbal’s voice dropped to a whisper, and the court went silent.
"Since you have sold the well to Madhav, the well now belongs entirely to him. Every stone and every inch of space inside that hole is his property. Is that correct?"
"Yes," the merchant replied, wondering where Birbal was going with this.
"Then tell me," Birbal’s eyes sparked with wit, "if the well belongs to Madhav, why are you keeping your water in his well?"
The Final Blow
The merchant’s smile vanished. He began to sweat.
Birbal continued, "You are trespassing! You are using Madhav's property to store your water without his permission. Therefore, I order you to do one of two things immediately:
Remove all your water from his well right now, without spilling a drop on his stones.
Pay Madhav a rent of twenty gold coins every hour for the use of his space to store your water."
The court erupted in cheers. Shantilal realized he was trapped by his own logic. He couldn't move the water, and he certainly couldn't afford the rent. He fell to his knees, shaking.
"Forgive me, Jahanpanah! Forgive me, Birbal!" he cried. "The water is his! The well is his! I was greedy and foolish!"
Akbar smiled and ordered the merchant to pay a fine of fifty gold coins to Madhav for the trouble he had caused. Madhav returned to his village, and from that day on, his cows never went thirsty again.
The Moral of the Story
"Greed and trickery may seem clever in the short term, but they always fall apart when faced with the truth. One should never use the 'letter of the law' to go against the 'spirit of justice.' If you try to dig a hole for others, you often end up falling into it yourself."
The Great Census of the Blind
The evening air in Agra was cool, and the marble of the palace balcony felt smooth under Emperor Akbar’s feet. He was watching the bustling crowds in the marketplace below—merchants shouting, children playing, and shoppers haggling.
"Birbal," Akbar said thoughtfully, "I look at my people and I wonder. I see so many eyes, but how many truly see? I suspect that in this world, there are more blind people than there are people with sight."
Akbar expected Birbal to agree that wisdom is rare, but Birbal’s answer was much more literal. "Majesty, you are correct. In fact, if I were to count the blind people in this city, the list would be so long it would cover the palace floor."
Akbar scoffed. "Now you are exaggerating, Birbal! Look at the thousands of people down there. Most of them have perfectly good eyes. I bet there are ten people with sight for every one blind person."
Birbal smiled. "Shall we have a test, Jahanpanah? Give me one day in the marketplace, and I will prove that the blind far outnumber those who see."
The Market Spectacle
The next morning, Birbal arrived at the center of the busiest market in Agra. He didn't bring a notebook or a pen. Instead, he brought a large, beautiful piece of silk and a needle with a silver thread.
He sat down on a colorful rug right in the middle of the road and began to mend a small hole in the silk. He worked with great focus, his head bent low.
Within minutes, a curious shopkeeper stopped. "Birbal Sahab! What are you doing?"
Birbal didn't say a word. He pulled out a long scroll and wrote something down.
A few minutes later, a soldier passed by. He paused, looked at Birbal, and asked, "Is that silk you are sewing, Birbal?" Again, Birbal wrote in his book without looking up.
By midday, a massive crowd had gathered. Every person who walked by—the vegetable seller, the water carrier, the rich nobleman in his carriage—stopped to ask the same question: "Birbal, what are you doing?" or "Are you mending that cloth?"
For every person who asked, Birbal added a name to his list.
The Emperor’s Curiosity
News reached the palace that Birbal was acting strangely in the market. Akbar, unable to contain his curiosity, hurried down to the bazaar with his guards. He found Birbal surrounded by hundreds of people.
Akbar pushed through the crowd. "Birbal!" the Emperor exclaimed. "Everyone is talking about you. What on earth are you doing sitting here in the dust?"
Birbal stopped sewing. He looked up, smiled, and wrote one final name at the very bottom of his long scroll.
"I have finished my census, Majesty," Birbal announced. "Here is the list of all the blind people in the city."
The Final Reveal
Akbar took the scroll. His eyes widened as he saw hundreds upon hundreds of names. But when he reached the bottom, his face turned red.
"Birbal! You have written my name at the end of this list!" Akbar thundered. "I am the Emperor! I see everything! How dare you call me blind?"
Birbal bowed low. "Jahanpanah, forgive me. But look at all these names. Every person on this list saw me sitting here with a needle and thread. They saw the cloth in my lap. Yet, they all asked, 'What are you doing?' Even you, Majesty, saw exactly what I was doing with your own eyes, yet you still had to ask the question."
Birbal continued gently, "A man with sight uses his eyes to understand the world. But a man who sees the truth and still asks what it is... he is behaving as if he were blind. I only wrote down the names of those who refused to believe what their own eyes were telling them."
Akbar stared at the needle in Birbal’s hand and then at the long list of names. He began to chuckle, and soon his laughter filled the marketplace.
"You are right, Birbal," Akbar admitted. "We often walk through life with our eyes open, yet we see nothing at all."
The Moral of the Story
"True 'seeing' is not just about having eyes; it is about using your mind to observe and understand the world around you. We often ask questions about things that are already obvious because we aren't truly paying attention. To be wise, one must learn to observe, not just look."
Story 12: The Sage and the Secret Hunger
The golden gates of the palace were crowded with people whispering in awe. A man had arrived in Agra who was being called a "Mahatma"—a Great Soul. It was said that this holy man had lived in a mountain cave for twenty years and had conquered all human needs. He sat in the middle of the royal courtyard, his legs crossed, his eyes closed in deep meditation.
The most amazing thing about him was the rumor that he never ate. Day after day, he sat under the scorching sun and the cool moon, never touching a morsel of food or a drop of water.
Emperor Akbar was deeply moved. "Birbal," the Emperor said, "we are lucky to have such a divine being in our city. I wish to offer him a chest of the finest diamonds and a silk robe woven with gold."
Birbal looked at the "Sage." He noticed that while the man looked thin, his skin was surprisingly healthy, and his lips weren't cracked from thirst. "Majesty," Birbal whispered, "holiness is a flame that burns inside the heart, but a show is often just a trick for the eyes. Give me three days before you give away the royal jewels."
The Temptation of the Senses
Birbal knew that if the man was a fraud, he couldn't be caught by asking him questions—he had to be caught by his own body.
On the first day, Birbal ordered the palace chefs to cook the most fragrant meal imaginable right next to the courtyard. The scent of spicy lamb curry, buttery saffron rice, and sweet, syrupy jalebis drifted over the Sage. The crowd’s mouths watered, but the Sage remained as still as a statue.
On the second day, Birbal placed a bowl of cold, sweet rosewater sherbet just inches from the Sage’s hand. The sun was hot, but the man didn't move.
"See, Birbal?" Akbar said proudly. "He is truly a saint. He does not care for the pleasures of the world."
Birbal smiled. "The mind can be very strong, Majesty. But the skin... the skin never lies."
The Itchy Truth
On the third day, Birbal walked past the Sage, carrying a small silk bag. As he bowed, he "accidentally" tripped. A fine, invisible powder spilled from the bag onto the Sage’s shoulders and neck.
This wasn't just any powder. It was made from dried Kachage—an extremely itchy nettle plant found in the deep forest.
For an hour, the Sage remained still. But then, a small muscle in his cheek began to twitch. Then his shoulder jerked. The itching was like a thousand tiny ants biting his skin. Suddenly, the "holy man" snapped. His eyes flew open—not with peace, but with rage. He began to scratch his neck, his arms, and his back with both hands, hopping around the courtyard like a frantic monkey.
"You! You did this!" he screamed at Birbal, his face turning red. "I'll curse you! I'll turn you into a toad!"
The Secret Compartment
"Aha!" Birbal cried. "A man who hasn't felt his own stomach for twenty years seems to feel a little itch quite clearly!"
While the man was busy scratching, Birbal walked over to the thick, velvet meditation mat the Sage had been sitting on. He flipped it over. Underneath, hidden in a hollowed-out wooden base, was a secret compartment. Inside were fresh fruits, nuts, and a small flask of expensive wine.
The crowd gasped. The Sage had been eating and drinking every night while everyone else was asleep!
Akbar’s face fell. He was disappointed to see that the man he admired was a liar. "Take him away," Akbar ordered the guards. "He wanted diamonds for his 'holiness,' but he shall have iron bars for his greed."
Birbal turned to the Emperor. "Majesty, a true holy man does not sit in the market to be seen by kings. He performs his good deeds in silence. Those who make a parade of their 'goodness' are usually just looking for a prize."
The Moral of the Story
"True character is what you do when no one is watching. Do not be easily fooled by those who put on a big show of being perfect or holy. Honesty does not need a stage, and a lie, no matter how well-hidden, will eventually come to light—even if it takes a little itch to find it."
tory 13: The Mirror of Contentment
The court of Emperor Akbar was a place where the finest artists in the world gathered. Poets sang of ancient heroes, dancers moved like flickering flames, and painters created pictures so real that birds would try to peck at the painted fruit.
One day, a master painter arrived from a distant land. He presented the Emperor with a portrait he had painted of Akbar himself. The painting was magnificent; every jewel on the Emperor's chest sparkled, and the silk of his robes looked so soft you felt you could touch it.
Akbar was delighted. "This is perfection!" he exclaimed. "Ask for any reward, and it shall be yours."
However, a minister named Sharif, who was always jealous of anyone receiving the Emperor’s favor, stepped forward. "Majesty, this painter has skill, but has he true vision? Anyone can paint what they see. But a true master can paint the invisible."
The painter looked confused. "How can one paint what cannot be seen?"
Sharif smiled wickedly. "I challenge you to paint 'The Picture of Contentment.' Contentment is a feeling of perfect peace and happiness. If you can show us what that looks like, you deserve the reward. If not, you are just a copier of faces."
The painter’s heart sank. He knew how to paint faces, trees, and palaces, but how could he paint a feeling? He turned to Birbal with pleading eyes.
The Secret Advice
Birbal whispered to the painter, "Do not paint a single stroke. Instead, find the largest, most beautiful silver mirror in the city. Clean it until it shines like the moon, and bring it to the court tomorrow wrapped in a cloth of gold."
The painter was hesitant, but he trusted Birbal.
The next morning, the court was filled with anticipation. Sharif was grinning, certain the painter would fail. Akbar sat on his throne, curious to see how one could capture "contentment" on a canvas.
The painter entered, carrying a large rectangular object covered in shimmering gold silk. He placed it on an easel in front of the Emperor.
"Majesty," the painter said, his voice trembling slightly, "I have captured the only true image of contentment that exists in your empire."
The Reveal
With a quick motion, the painter pulled away the gold cloth. There was no paint. There were no colors. There was only the giant, sparkling mirror.
Akbar looked into the mirror. He saw himself sitting on his glorious throne. He saw his crown, his healthy face, and the magnificent hall of his palace behind him.
"What is this?" Akbar asked, puzzled. "This is just my own reflection. Where is the painting?"
Birbal stepped forward and bowed. "Jahanpanah, look closely at your reflection. You are the ruler of a vast and peaceful land. You are healthy, you are powerful, and you have everything a man could dream of. When you look in that mirror, you see a man who has no reason to want anything more. That look of peace on your face—that is the very definition of Contentment."
Birbal then turned to the court. "Can any brush and paint capture the feeling better than the living face of a King who is satisfied with his life? The mirror shows the truth that no artist can invent."
The Reward
Akbar looked at his reflection again. He realized that Birbal was right. Contentment wasn't a mountain or a flower; it was the feeling of being happy with who you are and what you have.
"You have won the challenge!" Akbar declared to the painter. He rewarded the artist with a bag of gold and a title. As for Sharif, he slunk away into the shadows, his plan to embarrass the artist having failed once again.
The Moral of the Story
"Contentment is not something you find in the world outside; it is a reflection of how you feel about your life inside. We often go looking for happiness in far-off places, but if we look closely at ourselves and appreciate what we have, we will find that we already possess the greatest treasure of all."
Story 14: The Parrot That Didn’t Speak
In the golden age of the Mughal Empire, people from all over the world brought exotic gifts to Emperor Akbar. Some brought Persian carpets, others brought Arabian horses, but one day, a traveler brought something truly special: a magnificent parrot with feathers as green as emeralds and a beak as red as a ruby.
This was no ordinary bird. The traveler claimed it was the smartest parrot in the world. Akbar fell in love with the creature immediately. He gave the parrot a cage made of solid silver and appointed a special caretaker just to look after it.
However, Akbar was very protective of his new pet. He made a strange and terrifying decree to the caretaker: "You must look after this bird with your life. I want to know every detail of its health. But listen well—the day this parrot dies, I do not want to hear the words 'The parrot is dead.' Whoever brings me the news that the bird has died shall be sent to the gallows immediately! I cannot bear to hear such sadness."
The poor caretaker was terrified. He fed the bird the finest mangoes and nuts, prayed for its long life, and watched over it day and night.
The Silent Morning
Years passed, and the parrot lived a happy life. But one winter morning, the caretaker went to the silver cage and found the parrot lying on its back at the bottom. Its heart had stopped beating. It was cold and still.
The caretaker turned pale. He remembered the Emperor's decree. If he told Akbar the truth, he would be hanged. If he didn't tell him, and the Emperor found out, he would also be punished. In his panic, he ran to the only man who could save him: Birbal.
Birbal listened to the trembling man and patted his shoulder. "Do not worry, my friend. Go home and rest. I will break the news to the Emperor myself."
Birbal’s Report
Birbal walked into the royal court, where Akbar was discussing matters of the state. Birbal bowed low and said, "Jahanpanah, I have just come from visiting your wonderful parrot."
Akbar’s face lit up. "Ah, my favorite bird! How is he doing today? Is he eating well? Is he talking?"
Birbal looked very thoughtful. "Well, Majesty... it is hard to say. The parrot is in a very strange state of meditation. He is lying on his back, looking up at the sky with great focus."
Akbar frowned. "Is he chirping?"
"No, Majesty," Birbal replied. "He is practicing a vow of absolute silence. He doesn't move a wing. He doesn't blink an eye. He doesn't even breathe, so as not to disturb the air around him."
The Emperor’s Discovery
Akbar grew worried. "He isn't breathing? He isn't moving? Birbal, what are you saying? Is the parrot dead?"
Birbal quickly held up his hands. "Those are your words, Majesty, not mine! I only said he is very, very still."
Akbar rushed to the silver cage. He saw the bird lying motionless. He touched the cold feathers and sighed. "Birbal, why didn't you just say it? The parrot is dead!"
Birbal bowed gracefully. "Majesty, I could not say those words because of your decree. I described the bird exactly as I saw it. You were the one who realized the truth."
Akbar looked at the silent bird and then at Birbal. His anger melted away. He realized that his decree had been foolish and had put an innocent man’s life at risk. Thanks to Birbal’s clever choice of words, the news was delivered, the caretaker was safe, and the Emperor had learned to face the truth without blaming the messenger.
The Moral of the Story
"Truth can be hard to hear, but it is a part of life. We should not punish those who tell us things we don't like. Furthermore, a clever person knows how to deliver a difficult message with wisdom and tact, avoiding unnecessary conflict."
ry 15: The Jar of Sparkling Wit
The court of Emperor Akbar was often visited by messengers from distant lands, each trying to prove that their own King was the wisest. One afternoon, a messenger from the King of Ceylon (modern-day Sri Lanka) arrived. He carried a heavy, sealed ceramic jar wrapped in purple velvet.
"Jahanpanah," the messenger said with a bow. "My King has sent you a gift. Inside this jar is the rarest 'Sparkling Water' from the hidden springs of the South. However, there is a catch. This water is so pure that it cannot be seen by the naked eye. Only a man of true intelligence can 'see' the water and describe its taste."
Akbar looked into the jar. It looked completely empty. He tilted it, but no liquid sloshed around. He put his hand inside, but it came out bone-dry.
The other ministers tried as well. One said, "Oh, I can feel the coolness!" but his hand was shaking. Another said, "It tastes like sweet nectar!" even though he was just licking the air. They were all afraid to admit they saw nothing, fearing the messenger would call them fools.
Akbar turned to Birbal. "And you, Birbal? Can you see this invisible water?"
The Invisible Sip
Birbal didn't even look into the jar. He simply smiled at the messenger. "Indeed, it is a magnificent gift. But in our kingdom, we have a very specific way of tasting such rare water. We never drink it directly from the jar."
Birbal called for a servant to bring an empty golden bowl. He then mimicked the action of very carefully pouring something from the jar into the bowl. He moved with such grace that it looked like he was handling a heavy, precious liquid.
He then "picked up" the invisible bowl and handed it to the messenger.
"Since you brought this gift, you must be the first to taste it in our presence. Tell the Emperor—is the water from your King’s spring as fresh as it was the day you left?"
The Messenger’s Trap
The messenger was stuck. If he said the bowl was empty, he would be admitting his King’s gift was a lie. If he pretended to drink, he would have to describe the taste.
He took the bowl and made a loud "slurping" sound. "Ah! It is wonderful! It tastes like... like starlight and honey!"
Birbal clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Now, since the water is so pure and invisible, please show the Emperor where the water ends and the air begins in that bowl. If you can point to the exact level of the water, we shall give you a thousand gold coins."
The messenger stared at the empty bowl. He pointed to the middle. Birbal immediately reached out and "splashed" the air in the bowl. "Oh! You pointed too high! You've splashed the invisible water all over the Emperor’s expensive carpet! Look at the mess you've made!"
Akbar looked at the dry, dusty carpet and then at the messenger’s panicked face.
The Honest Conclusion
The messenger fell to his knees. "Forgive me, Majesty! There is no invisible water. The jar is empty. It was a test to see if your ministers would lie to appear smart."
Birbal laughed. "Knowledge is knowing a thing, but wisdom is knowing when a thing is not there at all. You tried to fill a jar with lies, but you cannot wash a face with invisible water."
Akbar was delighted. He sent the messenger back with an empty jar of his own, containing "The Breath of a Wise Man," telling the King of Ceylon that only a truly wise King would be able to hear the breath speak!
The Moral of the Story
"Never pretend to see or know something just because you are afraid of looking foolish. Honesty is always better than a clever lie. Often, the person who pretends to be the smartest is the easiest to trick with their own game."
Story 16: The Search for the Six Biggest Fools
One afternoon, Emperor Akbar was in a particularly playful mood. He looked at Birbal and said, "Birbal, you are the wisest man I know. But for every wise man, there must be a dozen fools. I want you to travel across the kingdom and find me the six biggest fools in Agra. Bring them to court in one month."
Birbal bowed. "As you wish, Jahanpanah."
The Search Begins
Birbal went out into the streets. He didn't have to look far.
Fool Number One: Birbal saw a man riding a pony, but he was carrying a large bundle of grass on his own head. "My friend," Birbal asked, "why don't you put that grass on the pony’s back?" The man replied, "Oh no, sir! My pony is very small and weak. It is already carrying my weight; if I put this heavy grass on it too, the poor creature will surely collapse!" Birbal smiled and whispered, "Follow me to the palace."
Fool Number Two: In the marketplace, Birbal found a man looking for something under a streetlamp. "What have you lost?" Birbal asked. "My keys," the man said. "And where did you lose them?" The man pointed to a dark alleyway fifty feet away. "Over there, in the darkness." "Then why are you looking here?" Birbal asked. The man looked at him like he was the crazy one. "Because there is no light over there! I can only see what I'm doing under this lamp!" Birbal nodded. "You are definitely number two. Follow me."
Fool Number Three & Four: Birbal saw two men arguing over a dream. The first man said, "I dreamt I had a cow, and it ate all your grass!" The second man shouted, "How dare your dream-cow eat my dream-grass! I'm going to sue you!" They were about to start a fistfight over invisible grass. Birbal grabbed them both. "Three and four. Let’s go."
The Presentation at Court
At the end of the month, Birbal arrived at the palace with the four men. Akbar looked at them and laughed. "I see the man with the grass, the man with the lamp, and the dreamers. But Birbal, I asked for six fools. There are only four here. Where are the other two?"
Birbal bowed low, a twinkle in his eye. "The fifth fool, Majesty, is me."
"You?" Akbar gasped. "Why?"
"Because," Birbal replied, "I am a wise man who spent an entire month wasting my time chasing after other fools instead of doing productive work for the empire. Only a fool would spend thirty days hunting for nonsense."
Akbar chuckled. "Fair enough. But that still makes only five. Who is the sixth fool?"
Birbal stayed silent for a moment, then looked directly at the Emperor. "Pardon me, Jahanpanah... but the sixth fool is you."
The court went silent. The guards gripped their spears.
"Me?" Akbar asked, his voice low.
"Yes, Majesty," Birbal said calmly. "Because you are the Great Emperor of India, with a million problems to solve and a kingdom to run, yet you used your royal power to ask someone to bring you a collection of fools for your amusement. Only the biggest fool would waste an Emperor’s time on such a quest."
Akbar stared at Birbal. The tension broke as the Emperor burst into a roar of laughter. "You are right, Birbal! I set the trap, and I walked right into it myself!"
The Moral of the Story
"We often spend our time judging the foolishness of others while ignoring our own. True wisdom is knowing how to use your time wisely. If you go looking for nonsense, don't be surprised when you find yourself right in the middle of it."
7
Story 17: The Mystery of the Mother Tongue
One bright afternoon, a distinguished scholar arrived at Akbar’s court. He was a man of immense learning who claimed to have mastered every language spoken under the sun. To prove his point, he engaged the court ministers in conversation.
He spoke fluent Persian with the poets, flawless Sanskrit with the priests, perfect Arabic with the scholars, and even regional dialects like Punjabi and Tamil with the soldiers. His accent was so perfect in every language that no one could tell where he was actually from.
"Majesty," the scholar challenged, "I have traveled the world, and no one has ever been able to guess my mother tongue. If any of your wise ministers can name my native language by tomorrow morning, I shall admit defeat. If not, you must acknowledge me as the greatest linguist in the land."
Akbar looked at his ministers. They were all silent. The scholar’s Marathi was as good as his Bengali; his Urdu was as sweet as his Turkish. Akbar turned to Birbal. "Birbal, the honor of our court is at stake. Can you find the truth?"
Birbal smiled. "I will need to spend some time with our guest tonight, Majesty. Tomorrow, you shall have your answer."
The Midnight Visit
That night, the scholar was given a luxurious room in the palace guest house. After a heavy meal, he fell into a deep sleep.
In the middle of the night, Birbal quietly sneaked into the scholar’s room. He carried a long, thin peacock feather. He crept up to the bed and began to tickle the scholar’s ear very gently. The scholar stirred but didn't wake up.
Then, Birbal took a small blade of grass and tickled the inside of the man's nose. The scholar's face twitched. Finally, Birbal leaned over and whispered a few nonsense words into the man's ear while pinching his arm sharply.
Startled out of a deep sleep and feeling a sudden sting, the scholar sat bolt upright. In his half-conscious, panicked state, he shouted a string of angry words.
"Evaru adi? Em chestunnavu?!" (Who is that? What are you doing?!)
Birbal didn't say a word. He vanished into the shadows before the scholar could rub the sleep from his eyes.
The Reveal
The next morning, the court was packed. The scholar stood proudly before the throne. "Well, Birbal? Have you guessed? Am I a Persian? A Turk? A man of the North?"
Birbal bowed. "Majesty, our guest is a master of many tongues, but his mother tongue is Telugu."
The scholar’s jaw dropped. He looked stunned. "How... how could you possibly know? I haven't spoken a word of Telugu since I entered the gates of Agra!"
Birbal explained, "Jahanpanah, it is a truth of human nature. No matter how many languages a man learns, when he is in great distress, when he is frightened, or when he is suddenly woken from sleep, he will always cry out in his mother tongue. Last night, when our guest was startled, he spoke in Telugu. The heart speaks its first language when the mind is too tired to pretend."
The scholar bowed to Birbal in respect. "You are as wise as they say, Birbal. Telugu is indeed my mother tongue."
The Moral of the Story
"You can dress yourself in many layers of learning and pretend to be someone else, but your true nature always comes out in times of crisis. Authenticity is something we carry deep within us, and the truth has a way of revealing itself when we least expect it."
8
Story 18: The King’s Dream and the Two Interpretations
One night, Emperor Akbar had a terrifying nightmare. He dreamt that one by one, all of his teeth fell out of his mouth until only a single tooth remained. He woke up in a cold sweat, trembling. In those days, dreams were taken very seriously as messages from the heavens.
The next morning, Akbar summoned the most famous royal astrologer to interpret the dream. The astrologer listened carefully, stroked his long beard, and looked very grim.
"Majesty," the astrologer sighed, "this is a dark omen. Falling teeth mean death. My interpretation is that you will live to see all your relatives die, one by one, until you are left completely alone in this world."
Akbar was horrified and then filled with rage. "You dare predict the death of my family to my face? Guards! Throw this man into the dungeon for his insolence and cruelty!"
The Emperor was left in a deep depression, haunted by the image of his family's graves.
Birbal’s Different Lens
Birbal saw the Emperor’s sadness and inquired about the cause. When he heard the story, he asked to see the Emperor immediately.
"Jahanpanah," Birbal said with a bright smile. "I have also studied the ancient books of dreams. That astrologer was a fool who did not understand the true meaning of your vision. May I offer you the real interpretation?"
Akbar looked up, hope flickering in his eyes. "Please, Birbal. Tell me the truth."
Birbal bowed. "Majesty, the dream of the teeth is actually a magnificent blessing! It means that you will live longer than all your relatives. You have been granted the gift of the longest life in your entire bloodline!"
The Result
Akbar’s face transformed. He beamed with joy. "The longest life? I shall be the patriarch who sees his kingdom flourish for generations? That is wonderful news!"
Akbar rewarded Birbal with a bag of gold. Then, Birbal used that moment to whisper, "Majesty, the first astrologer said the exact same thing, just in a different way. If you live longer than your relatives, it naturally means they will pass away before you. He was not being cruel; he was just being clumsy with his words."
Akbar realized his mistake. He ordered the astrologer to be released from the dungeon and gave him a small gift as an apology for his temper.
The Moral of the Story
"The truth is important, but how you say it matters just as much as what you say. A wise person knows how to deliver even difficult news in a way that provides perspective rather than pain. Diplomacy is the art of telling the truth without making an enemy."
Story 19: The Fastest Traveler
The morning air was crisp as Akbar and Birbal sat in the royal gardens, watching a hawk dive from the sky to catch its prey. The speed of the bird was breathtaking.
"Birbal," Akbar said, "look at that hawk. It moves like an arrow. It makes me wonder—what is the fastest thing in this world? Some say it is the wind that carries the clouds. Others say it is the light of the sun that reaches us from the heavens. What do you think?"
One of the courtiers, wanting to sound clever, interrupted: "Surely it is the Cheetah, Majesty! It can outrun any horse."
Another added, "No, it must be the Great Storm, which can cross an entire desert in a single day."
Birbal shook his head. "The wind is fast, and the cheetah is swift, but they are like snails compared to the fastest thing in the universe."
Akbar leaned in. "And what is that, Birbal?"
"It is the human mind, Jahanpanah," Birbal replied.
The Proof of Thought
Akbar looked skeptical. "The mind? How can a thought be faster than a hawk or the wind?"
Birbal smiled. "Majesty, consider this. If I ask you to think of the gates of the city of Kabul, where are you now?"
"In my mind, I am at the gates of Kabul," Akbar replied.
"And now," Birbal continued, "think of the stars in the midnight sky."
"I am there," said Akbar.
"In a single heartbeat," Birbal explained, "your mind traveled thousands of miles from Agra to Kabul, and then millions of miles into the deep heavens. No bird can fly that distance in a lifetime, and even the wind takes weeks to cross the mountains. But the mind? It can reach the edge of the universe before you can blink your eyes."
Akbar marveled at the thought. He realized that while our bodies are bound to the earth and move slowly, our imagination and our thoughts are free to travel anywhere at the speed of light.
The Moral of the Story
"Our thoughts have no boundaries. The mind is the most powerful and fastest tool we possess. Because it can travel anywhere and imagine anything in an instant, we must be careful to lead it toward good and productive places."
Story 20: The Pot of Wisdom
A neighboring King, who was often jealous of Akbar’s fame, decided to play a prank on the Emperor. He sent a messenger to Agra with a formal letter that read:
"I have heard that your kingdom is blessed with an abundance of everything, especially wisdom. I find myself in short supply of it. Please fill the enclosed earthen pot with 'Wisdom' and send it back to me. If you cannot provide a pot of wisdom, I shall assume your ministers are not as clever as the world says."
Akbar looked at the empty pot. It was a narrow-necked clay vessel, the kind used for storing water. "How can anyone fill a pot with wisdom?" Akbar grumbled. "Wisdom is not a liquid or a grain. This King is mocking us!"
He handed the pot to Birbal. "Birbal, can you give this King what he wants, or should I prepare for a diplomatic insult?"
Birbal inspected the pot and smiled. "Do not worry, Majesty. Wisdom takes time to grow. Tell the messenger to return in three months, and I shall have the pot filled to the brim with the finest wisdom in Agra."
The Growing Secret
Birbal took the pot to his own garden. He didn't fill it with books or scrolls. Instead, he went to a patch where he was growing pumpkins.
He chose a very small, young pumpkin that was still attached to the vine. Carefully, he slipped the tiny pumpkin through the narrow neck of the pot. He then placed the pot on the ground, making sure the vine could still reach the fruit inside.
Over the next few months, Birbal watered the vine and made sure it had plenty of sunlight. Inside the dark, cool space of the clay vessel, the pumpkin grew larger and larger. Soon, it filled every inch of the pot, taking its exact shape.
Once the pumpkin was fully grown and squeezed tight against the clay walls, Birbal cut it from the vine.
The Delivery
When the messenger returned, Birbal handed him the pot, which was now very heavy. A lid was sealed over the top.
"Here is the Wisdom your King requested," Birbal said. "But there is a condition. My King is very fond of this specific pot. Your King must remove the 'Wisdom' without breaking the pot or damaging the fruit inside. If he can do that, he is truly a wise man."
The messenger returned to his King and presented the gift. When the King opened the lid, he saw a giant pumpkin perfectly fitted inside the narrow-necked jar. He tried to pull it out, but it was impossible. The neck was too thin. He tried to shake it, but it wouldn't budge.
The only way to get the "wisdom" out was to smash the pot—but Birbal had forbidden that.
The neighboring King laughed and sent a letter of apology to Akbar. "You have sent me the perfect symbol of wisdom," he wrote. "It shows that wisdom is something that grows with time and fits its container perfectly, and once it is fully formed, it cannot be easily removed by those who are impatient!"
The Moral of the Story
"True wisdom is knowing how to use the resources around you to solve a problem. It also teaches us that some things, like growth and knowledge, must happen naturally over time. You cannot rush the 'ripening' of a good idea."
Story 21: The Golden Axe and the Test of Truth
On the outskirts of Agra, a poor woodcutter named Devan worked from sunrise to sunset to feed his family. One afternoon, while he was chopping a thick branch overhanging the Yamuna River, his old iron axe slipped from his sweaty palms and fell with a loud splash into the deep, swirling water.
Devan sat on the bank and began to weep. "Oh, woe is me! That was my only tool. Without it, I cannot work, and my children will go hungry."
Birbal, who was walking nearby to enjoy the river breeze, heard the man's cries. He approached Devan and, after hearing the story, decided to test the man’s character. "Do not worry, friend," Birbal said. "I am a strong swimmer. I will dive in and find it for you."
The Three Axes
Birbal dived into the cold water. A moment later, he emerged holding a magnificent Golden Axe that sparkled in the sunlight. "Is this your axe?" Birbal asked.
Devan looked at the gold and sighed. "No, sir. That is very beautiful, but it is not mine."
Birbal dived again. This time, he came up with a Silver Axe, its blade shining like a mirror. "Is this the one?"
Again, Devan shook his head. "No, sir. My axe was made of plain iron and had a wooden handle worn smooth by my hands."
Finally, Birbal dived a third time and brought up the old, rusty Iron Axe. Devan’s face lit up with a huge smile. "Yes! That is it! Thank you, kind sir!"
The Reward of Honesty
Birbal was impressed. Most men would have taken the gold or silver and lied. Birbal revealed his identity to the woodcutter. "Devan, you are an honest man. As a reward for your truthfulness, I want you to keep all three axes."
Devan returned to the village a rich man. However, news of his luck spread quickly. A greedy neighbor named Shambhu decided he wanted a golden axe too.
The next day, Shambhu went to the same spot, threw his iron axe into the river on purpose, and began to wail loudly. Birbal, expecting this, appeared again. He dived in and showed Shambhu the Golden Axe.
"Yes! Yes! That's mine!" Shambhu screamed, reaching out greedily.
Birbal’s face turned stern. "You lie, Shambhu. Because you are dishonest, you shall have neither the gold nor the silver. And because you threw your own tool away out of greed, I shall not even return your iron axe."
The Emperor’s Verdict
When the story reached the palace, Akbar praised Birbal. "Honesty is a treasure that many trade for a bit of gold," the Emperor said. "But in the end, the honest man sleeps well, while the greedy man loses even what he had."
The Moral of the Story
"Honesty is always the best policy. Greed can make a person lose their perspective and their integrity. When you tell the truth, you earn respect and peace of mind, which are worth more than any pile of gold."
Story 22: The Counting of the Crows
It was a quiet afternoon on the palace terrace. Emperor Akbar was in a pensive mood, watching a flock of crows circle above the royal stables. He turned to his ministers and asked a question that seemed to come out of thin air.
"We know how many soldiers are in our army. We know how many gold coins are in our treasury. But tell me," Akbar said, pointing to the sky, "does anyone know exactly how many crows live in the city of Agra?"
The ministers looked at each other in shock. "But Majesty," one stammered, "the crows fly in and out. They hide in trees and on rooftops. It is impossible to count them!"
Akbar looked at Birbal, who was standing quietly with a small smile. "What about you, Birbal? You always have an answer. How many crows are there in my capital?"
Birbal didn't hesitate for a second. "There are exactly ninety-five thousand, four hundred and sixty-three crows in Agra, Jahanpanah."
The Emperor’s Challenge
Akbar was stunned by the exactness of the number. "Are you sure, Birbal? That is a very specific figure. What if I order a census and the count is different?"
"You are welcome to count them, Majesty," Birbal replied calmly. "However, if you find more than my number, it simply means that some crows are visiting from neighboring kingdoms to see their relatives here in Agra."
Akbar raised an eyebrow. "And if there are fewer?"
"Then it means that some of our crows have flown away to visit their families in other cities," Birbal said with a wink.
The Logic of Wit
The court erupted in laughter. Akbar realized that Birbal had used a clever logical trap. Since no one could actually count every bird at the exact same moment, Birbal’s answer could never be proven wrong. He had answered a "useless" question with a "witty" answer that satisfied the Emperor's curiosity without wasting any royal resources on a bird census.
Akbar shook his head, smiling. "Birbal, you can find a way out of any corner. I suppose I will have to take your word for it!"
The Moral of the Story
"Some questions are asked not to find a fact, but to test your quickness of mind. When faced with an impossible or unnecessary task, wit and humor are often the best tools to show that the question itself doesn't require a serious answer."
Story 23: The Sweetest Sound in the World
The evening was filled with the melodies of the royal musicians. A famous singer had just finished a raga that was so beautiful it seemed to make the very walls of the palace vibrate with peace. Emperor Akbar, deeply moved, turned to his courtiers.
"Music is surely the greatest gift to the ears," Akbar mused. "But tell me, what do you think is the sweetest sound in the entire world? Is it the song of the nightingale? The sound of a silver flute? Or perhaps the jingling of gold coins in a successful merchant's bag?"
The ministers, eager to please, gave their answers: "It is the sound of the veena!" said one. "No, it is the sound of a mother’s lullaby," said another. "I believe it is the sound of the rain hitting the dry earth," suggested a third.
Birbal sat quietly. When Akbar looked at him, Birbal said, "Jahanpanah, the sounds mentioned are beautiful, but the sweetest sound in the world is the voice of a person who is praising you from their heart."
The Silent Experiment
Akbar was surprised. "Praise? That is just vanity, Birbal. Surely there are sounds more divine than a compliment."
"Let us test it," Birbal suggested.
The next day, Birbal arranged for two different scenes. First, he took the Emperor to a garden where the most talented musician in Agra was playing. The music was perfect, but the Emperor, having heard it many times, simply nodded and soon began to feel a bit bored.
Then, Birbal led Akbar (who was wearing a simple cloak to hide his identity) to a small village school. Birbal had secretly told the teacher to have the children discuss the Emperor.
As they stood hidden behind a wall, they heard a young boy say, "I want to grow up to be brave and kind, just like our Emperor Akbar. My father says that since Akbar became King, no one in our village goes to sleep hungry. He is like a father to us all."
The other children cheered and began talking about the Emperor’s justice and wisdom.
Akbar’s eyes grew moist. A wide, genuine smile spread across his face. He stood taller, and his heart felt lighter than it had during the concert.
The Conclusion
"You see, Majesty?" Birbal whispered. "The finest music can entertain the ears, but the sound of someone speaking well of you—especially when they don't know you are listening—is the music that feeds the soul. It is the sweetest sound because it tells you that your life has meaning to others."
Akbar nodded in agreement. "You have reached the truth again, Birbal. No instrument can play a tune as sweet as the words of a grateful heart."
The Moral of the Story
"While art and nature provide beautiful sounds, nothing compares to the joy of knowing you are loved and respected. Kindness and good deeds create a 'melody' of reputation that is more lasting and sweeter than any song."
Story 24: The Gardener’s Stain
Agra was experiencing a particularly humid summer, and Emperor Akbar spent much of his time in the cool, shaded pavilions of his garden. One afternoon, he decided to personally inspect a new variety of mango tree that had been planted.
As he walked, the royal gardener, an elderly man named Nathu, was busy trimming the hedges. Nathu was startled by the Emperor's sudden arrival and accidentally knocked over a bowl of dark, sticky red dye that was being used to mark the trees. The dye splashed directly onto the Emperor’s pristine white silk robe.
Akbar’s face turned as red as the dye. "Look at this!" he roared. "This robe was a gift from the King of Persia. You are a clumsy fool!"
In his heat-induced anger, Akbar declared, "For this insult to my person and my attire, you shall be given twenty lashes of the whip tomorrow morning!"
The White Sheet Strategy
The gardener ran to Birbal, trembling with fear. Birbal listened and then went to the palace laundry. He asked the head washerman for a large, plain white cotton sheet.
The next morning, before the punishment could begin, Birbal walked into the court draped in that very sheet. He had purposely splashed it with mud, ink, and juice. He looked like a mess.
"Birbal!" Akbar exclaimed, momentarily forgetting his anger at the gardener. "What happened to you? You look like a beggar's rag!"
"Oh, Jahanpanah," Birbal sighed. "I was walking to the palace when a carriage splashed through a puddle. My clothes are ruined! I am so ashamed that I wanted to hide under this sheet."
"Nonsense," Akbar said. "It is just a stain. Why are you making such a tragedy of it? You can simply change your clothes. A stain on a cloth does not change the man underneath."
The Reflection
Birbal looked up at the Emperor. "That is exactly what I thought, Majesty. If a wise King like you says a stain on a cloth is a small thing, then why is poor Nathu the gardener being whipped for a splash of dye on yours?"
Akbar paused. He looked at the gardener waiting by the guards and then back at Birbal's messy sheet. He realized that in his pride over a piece of silk, he had forgotten the value of a human being.
"You have caught me in my own words again, Birbal," Akbar said, his voice softening. He turned to the guards. "Release the gardener. And Nathu, come here."
The gardener approached, terrified. Akbar reached into his pocket and handed him a gold coin. "Buy some soap for your bowls, and perhaps a new shirt for yourself. I was wrong to value my robe over your safety."
The Moral of the Story
"We often get angry over material things—a broken plate, a stained shirt, or a lost object. But objects can be replaced; people and their dignity cannot. Never let your temper over a small accident cause a large injustice."
Story 25: The Mirror of Truth
At the halfway mark of our journey, we find Akbar in a reflective mood. He had been listening to his court poets all day. They sang songs about how Akbar’s ancestors were as brave as lions, as tall as mountains, and as wise as gods. Akbar, being human, was starting to enjoy the flattery a bit too much.
One morning, while a servant named Rahim was shaving the Emperor, Akbar asked him, "Tell me, Rahim, you have served the palace for many years. Do you think my father and grandfather were the greatest men to ever walk the earth, as the poets say?"
Rahim, a simple and honest man, replied, "Majesty, I did not know your grandfather well, but I remember him as a man. He ate, he slept, and he made mistakes, just like anyone else. He was a great King, but he was still just a man."
Akbar’s ego was bruised. "Just a man? The poets say he was a divine hero! You are an ungrateful servant with no respect for the royal bloodline!" In a fit of vanity, Akbar banished Rahim from the palace.
The Two Pedestals
Birbal heard of Rahim’s banishment and decided to show Akbar the difference between a "hero" and a "human."
A few days later, Birbal invited Akbar to a nearby village where two statues were being built. One was a magnificent, towering statue of Akbar’s grandfather made of shimmering gold. The other was a simple, life-sized clay statue of a common farmer.
"Look, Jahanpanah," Birbal said. "The gold statue is what the poets see—perfect and untouchable. But the clay statue is what the servant Rahim sees—the earth from which we all come."
Suddenly, a heavy rain began to fall. The clay statue began to soften and melt back into the mud. The gold statue stayed bright, but because it was so top-heavy and rigid, the wind caught it and it toppled over into the dirt with a loud crash.
The Lesson
"You see, Majesty?" Birbal said as they watched the gold statue lying in the mud. "When we pretend our ancestors were gods, we make them brittle. When we admit they were men of the earth, we allow them to be real. Rahim was not insulting your grandfather; he was honoring his humanity. A man who makes mistakes and still builds an empire is much more impressive than a 'god' who cannot fail."
Akbar looked at the fallen golden statue, now covered in the same mud as the clay. He realized that Rahim’s honesty was worth more than a thousand poems of flattery.
"Bring Rahim back," Akbar ordered. "And tell the poets to save their songs for the heavens. In this palace, I want people who see the truth."
The Moral of the Story
"Flattery is like a sweet poison; it feels good but ruins your judgment. Truth may be plain and unpolished, but it is the only foundation upon which a great character can be built. Respect your past, but do not turn it into a myth that blinds you to the present."
Story 26: The Weight of a Wish
A poor Brahmin once arrived at the palace gates. He had heard of Emperor Akbar’s legendary generosity and hoped to secure enough wealth to marry off his daughters. When he was finally granted an audience, he bowed low and said, "Jahanpanah, I do not want gold coins that can be spent in a day. I ask for a gift that is heavy—so heavy that I can barely carry it away, a gift that shows the true weight of your kindness."
Akbar, feeling generous, whispered to Birbal, "He wants something heavy? Give him a sack of lead covered in gold leaf. That should satisfy his strange request."
But Birbal saw the hope in the old man's eyes and knew the Emperor was being a bit mischievous. "Majesty," Birbal suggested, "if it must be heavy, let it be something that carries the weight of the entire empire."
The Unexpected Burden
Birbal led the Brahmin to the royal stables. Instead of gold or jewels, Birbal handed the man a simple, long rope. At the other end of the rope was a massive, aging royal elephant.
"Here is your gift," Birbal announced. "It is the heaviest thing we could find. It is yours to keep."
The Brahmin’s face went pale. An elephant! An elephant was indeed heavy, but it was also incredibly expensive to feed. It required mounds of sugarcane, bundles of bananas, and gallons of water every day. Within a week, the "heavy gift" would make the poor Brahmin even poorer.
The Brahmin returned to the palace the next day, looking exhausted. "Birbal," he pleaded, "this gift is too heavy! It is eating me out of my house and home. I cannot carry the weight of this kindness any longer!"
The Clever Trade
Birbal smiled. He had expected this. He turned to Akbar and said, "Majesty, the Brahmin has realized that a 'heavy' gift is often a burden. He no longer wishes to carry the elephant."
Birbal then turned back to the Brahmin. "Since you cannot keep the elephant, the Emperor will 'buy' it back from you. For every pound that this elephant weighs, the Emperor will give you one silver coin."
The elephant was led to a giant scale used for weighing grain shipments. It was enormous. The weight was calculated, and the Brahmin was given a small fortune in silver—enough to feed his family and marry his daughters with ease.
Akbar laughed, realizing Birbal had found a way to be truly generous while teaching a lesson. "The Brahmin asked for weight," Akbar said, "and you gave him the wealth of a mountain."
The Moral of the Story
"Be careful what you wish for, as you might not be prepared for the responsibility that comes with it. A great gift or a high position often carries a 'weight' of duty that can be difficult to manage. True wealth is not just having much, but having what you can actually use to better your life."
Story 27: The Best Weapon
One day, Emperor Akbar was discussing military strategy with his generals. The room was filled with talk of tempered steel, long-range bows, and heavy maces.
"Birbal," Akbar said, "you are a man of peace, but tell me: in your opinion, what is the best weapon in the world? Is it the sharpest sword, the longest spear, or perhaps the heaviest cannon?"
The head general scoffed, "Surely, it is the sword, Majesty. It is the extension of a brave man's arm!"
Birbal smiled and replied, "Majesty, the best weapon in the world is the one you have in your hand at the moment of danger."
Akbar laughed. "What nonsense! If a mad elephant charges at me and I am holding a small stick, is the stick better than a sword across the room? You are being too clever for your own good, Birbal."
The Unexpected Attack
A few days later, Akbar and Birbal were walking through a narrow, quiet alleyway in the city. Suddenly, from around a corner, a large, aggressive stray dog—foaming at the mouth and growling fiercely—charged directly at the Emperor.
Akbar reached for his side, but he had forgotten to wear his royal sword that morning. He was defenseless. The dog leaped into the air, its teeth bared.
In a flash, Birbal grabbed a heavy, wooden laundry mallet that a washerwoman had left sitting on a nearby stone. With a swift movement, he swung the mallet and struck the dog's snout. The dog yelped and ran away, tail between its legs.
The Lesson in the Alley
Akbar stood there, heart racing, catching his breath. He looked at the wooden mallet in Birbal's hand.
"A laundry mallet, Birbal?" Akbar asked, still a bit shaken.
"At this moment, Majesty," Birbal said with a bow, "this piece of wood was much more useful than the finest diamond-encrusted sword sitting in your armory five miles away. A weapon is only as good as its availability. The bravest soldier is the one who uses whatever is at his disposal to survive."
Akbar smiled and patted Birbal on the shoulder. "Once again, your practical wisdom has saved my skin. I shall remember: a weapon in the hand is worth ten in the scabbard."
The Moral of the Story
"Preparation is important, but adaptability is the key to survival. Don't wait for the 'perfect' tool or the 'perfect' moment to solve a problem. Use what you have, where you are, to do what you can. Presence of mind is the greatest weapon of all."
Story 28: The Owner of the Water
A merchant named Sethu once bought a well from a cunning farmer named Gopal. Sethu paid a high price in gold because he needed the water for his thirsty crops. However, the very next morning, when Sethu went to draw a bucket of water, Gopal stopped him.
"Stop!" Gopal shouted. "I sold you the well, but I did not sell you the water inside it. If you want to touch my water, you must pay me a silver coin for every bucket."
Sethu was shocked. "That is ridiculous! How can you sell a well without its water?"
But Gopal was stubborn and took the case to the Emperor’s court. "Majesty," Gopal argued with a sly grin, "the contract clearly says 'one stone-lined well.' It says nothing about the water. The water is mine, and Sethu is trespassing on my property."
Akbar looked at the contract. Legally, the farmer was right—the word "water" was missing. He looked at Birbal. "Birbal, this seems like a trick, but the law is the law. How do we solve this?"
The Rental Fee
Birbal turned to the farmer. "Gopal, you are absolutely right. The water belongs to you, and the well belongs to Sethu."
Gopal smirked, thinking he had won.
"However," Birbal continued, "since the water is yours and the well belongs to Sethu, you are currently keeping your property inside Sethu's well. You are using his space to store your water."
Gopal’s smile vanished.
"Therefore," Birbal said sternly, "you have two choices. Either you remove all of your water from Sethu’s well immediately, or you must pay Sethu a rental fee of ten gold coins per day for using his well as a storage tank."
The Solution
Gopal realized he had been trapped by his own greed. To remove the water was impossible, and to pay the rent would cost him more than the well was worth. He immediately apologized, gave up his claim to the water, and fled from the court before he could be fined for wasting the Emperor's time.
The Moral of the Story
"Greed and clever tricks may work for a moment, but they cannot stand against true logic and justice. When you try to cheat someone using the 'letter of the law,' be prepared for someone wiser to use that same law to catch you in your own trap."
Story 29: The Most Beautiful Child
One day, while walking through the palace gardens, Emperor Akbar saw a nobleman’s son playing. The boy was dressed in silks and jewels, with large, bright eyes and a perfect smile.
"What a beautiful child!" Akbar exclaimed. "He must be the most beautiful child in all of Agra. Birbal, do you agree? Or can you find a child even more beautiful than this one?"
Birbal smiled gently. "Beauty is a strange thing, Majesty. It lives in the eyes of the person looking. I believe I can find a child who is far more beautiful than this nobleman’s son, but you must come with me to the city to see for yourself."
The Hidden Corner
The next day, Birbal led the Emperor, who was disguised in a commoner's cloak, through the poorest parts of the city. They walked past narrow alleys and dusty streets until Birbal stopped in front of a small, crumbling hut.
In the mud outside the hut, a small child was playing. The child was covered in soot and dirt, his clothes were tattered rags, and his face was messy. To any stranger, he looked like a very ordinary, perhaps even unattractive, little boy.
Suddenly, a woman—the child’s mother—ran out of the hut. Her face lit up with a glow that outshone the sun. She scooped the muddy child into her arms, kissing his dirty cheeks and laughing with pure joy.
"Oh, my little moon!" she cried. "My beautiful, perfect diamond! There is no one in the world as wonderful as you!"
The Lesson of the Heart
Akbar looked at Birbal, confused. "Birbal, is this the child? He is covered in grime! How can you say he is more beautiful than the nobleman’s son we saw yesterday?"
"I didn't say I found him beautiful, Majesty," Birbal replied. "I wanted you to see him through his mother's eyes. To that woman, this child is more precious than all the gold in your treasury and more beautiful than any prince. Love has a way of washing away the dirt and seeing the perfection underneath."
Akbar watched the mother and son for a moment longer. He realized that the nobleman's son was beautiful to the world, but this child was beautiful to the soul.
The Moral of the Story
"Beauty is not just what we see on the outside; it is a reflection of the love we feel. To someone who loves you, you are always the most beautiful person in the world. We should judge people by the love they inspire, not just by the clothes they wear or the symmetry of their faces."
Story 30: The Punishment of the Beard
One morning, Emperor Akbar entered the court looking deeply troubled and quite offended. He sat on his throne and addressed his ministers with a stern voice.
"A grave insult has been committed against the crown today," Akbar declared. "Someone had the audacity to come up to me and pull a hair from my royal beard! Tell me, what should be the punishment for such a person?"
The court went into an uproar. The ministers were horrified. "Execution!" shouted one. "Flogging in the public square!" cried another. "Banishment to the harshest desert!" suggested a third.
The ministers competed to suggest the most brutal punishment, hoping to prove their loyalty to the Emperor. Only Birbal remained silent, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.
"And you, Birbal?" Akbar asked. "Why are you silent? What punishment would you give to the one who dared to pull the Emperor's beard?"
Birbal bowed and said calmly, "Majesty, I believe you should give the offender a box of the finest Persian sweets and a warm embrace."
The Only One Who Dares
The room fell silent. The other ministers gasped in shock. "Sweets?" Akbar asked, raising an eyebrow. "You want me to reward someone for insulting me?"
"Jahanpanah," Birbal replied softly, "think for a moment. Who in this entire empire is brave enough, or innocent enough, to stand close enough to the mighty Emperor Akbar to reach out and tug at his beard? Who is the only person who does not fear your power, but only sees your love?"
Akbar’s eyes softened as he realized the truth. That morning, while he was playing with his young grandson, the little prince had reached out and playfully pulled on his grandfather's beard.
"You are right, Birbal," Akbar laughed, his anger completely gone. "It was indeed my grandson. Only he would dare such a thing, and only he deserves my sweets instead of my sword."
The Moral of the Story
"Context is everything. Before you react with anger or judge a situation, take a moment to look at the 'who' and the 'why.' Mercy and love should always be considered before harshness, especially when dealing with the innocent."
Story 31: The Mystery of the Missing Ring
One evening, while preparing for a royal banquet, Emperor Akbar realized that his favorite diamond ring—a gift from the Queen—was missing from his jewelry box. He was certain he had placed it there just an hour before.
He immediately summoned his eight personal servants who had access to his chambers. "One of you has stolen my ring," Akbar thundered. "If the thief confesses now, I may show mercy. If not, the consequences will be dire!"
The servants all fell to their knees, protesting their innocence. Akbar turned to Birbal. "Birbal, find the thief. I want my ring back before the sun sets."
The Magic Straws
Birbal looked at the eight servants. They all looked terrified, but he knew that one of them was hiding a secret. He didn't use threats; instead, he used a bit of "magic."
Birbal handed each servant a simple straw, all of which were exactly the same length. "These are no ordinary straws," Birbal announced solemnly. "These are Magic Straws from a distant land. Tonight, the straw held by the thief will grow exactly two inches longer as he sleeps."
He instructed the servants to return to their quarters and bring the straws back the next morning.
The Reveal
The next morning, the eight servants stood in a line. Birbal went from one to the other, measuring each straw against a master stick. Seven of the straws were the same length. But when he reached the eighth servant, he found that his straw was exactly two inches shorter than the others.
"Here is your thief, Majesty," Birbal said, pointing to the trembling man.
"But Birbal," Akbar asked, "you said the thief’s straw would grow longer. This man's straw is shorter!"
Birbal smiled. "Jahanpanah, the straws were not magic. But the thief, fearing that his straw would grow longer overnight, cut exactly two inches off the end of his straw to hide the change. His own guilt and fear made him give himself away."
The servant immediately confessed and returned the ring, which he had hidden inside a hollow bedpost.
The Moral of the Story
"A guilty conscience needs no accuser. Fear of being caught often leads a dishonest person to make mistakes that a calm, honest person would never make. Truth is the only thing that doesn't require a clever cover-up."
Story 32: The Shortest Line
One afternoon in the grand hall of the palace, Emperor Akbar decided to test the wits of his courtiers with a simple geometric puzzle. He took a piece of charcoal and drew a long, straight line on the marble floor.
"Look at this line," Akbar commanded. "I want one of you to make this line shorter. However, there are two strict rules: you must not touch the line I have drawn, and you must not erase any part of it."
The ministers gathered around the line, whispering. "How can you make a line shorter without rubbing it out?" asked one. "Perhaps we can cover part of it with a carpet?" suggested another. "No," the Emperor replied, "that is hiding the line, not making it shorter."
One by one, the ministers gave up, admitting that the task was impossible. Finally, Akbar turned to Birbal. "And what about you? Can you shorten my line without touching it?"
The Power of Comparison
Birbal stepped forward without saying a word. He took a piece of charcoal and drew a second line right next to the Emperor’s line. However, Birbal’s line was twice as long as the first one.
Birbal stood back and pointed at the floor. "Look, Majesty. Your line is now shorter than it was before."
Akbar looked at the two lines and laughed. "You are right, Birbal! By creating something bigger next to it, you have made my line look small and short by comparison."
The Lesson of Perspective
Birbal explained, "Jahanpanah, everything in life is relative. We only feel small when we stand next to a giant, and we only feel poor when we compare ourselves to a king. To change the 'size' of a problem, we sometimes don't need to change the problem itself—we only need to change our perspective by looking at something larger."
The Moral of the Story
"Comparison is the tool we use to measure our world. If you want to overcome a small difficulty, focus on a bigger goal. Perspective can change the nature of a challenge without you ever having to 'touch' or struggle with the original problem."
Story 33: The Turns of the Street
One evening, while riding through the bustling streets of Agra on the royal elephant, Emperor Akbar noticed the winding, chaotic nature of the city's alleyways. The streets twisted left, then right, then narrowed into tiny paths before opening into wide squares.
"Birbal," Akbar said, looking down at the maze of roads, "I have lived in this city for years, yet I always get lost in these small streets. Tell me, do you know exactly how many turns there are in the streets of Agra?"
The courtiers riding behind them began to whisper. "How could anyone know such a thing? New streets are built, others are blocked, and some are so small they don't even have names!"
They expected Birbal to ask for a week to count them, just as he had with the crows. But Birbal didn't even pause his elephant.
"There are only two turns in all the streets of Agra, Jahanpanah," Birbal replied confidently.
The Simple Truth
Akbar stopped his elephant and looked at Birbal with a frown. "Only two? Birbal, look around us! In this one square alone, I can see five different corners. How can you say there are only two in the entire city?"
Birbal smiled and pointed ahead. "It is simple, Majesty. No matter which street you take, no matter how long or winding it is, you can only ever turn left or right. There is no third direction."
Akbar stared at Birbal for a moment, then burst into a hearty laugh. "You've done it again! I was looking for a complicated number, and you gave me a universal truth. You stripped away the noise and found the simplest answer possible."
The Moral of the Story
"We often overcomplicate our problems by looking at the details instead of the big picture. When you feel overwhelmed by the 'thousand turns' of life, remember that most choices boil down to a few simple directions. Clarity comes from simplifying, not from counting every obstacle."
Story 34: The Blind Men of Agra
One morning, while sitting on the royal balcony, Emperor Akbar remarked, "I feel blessed to rule over such a healthy city. I rarely see any blind people in the streets of Agra. It seems we have very few people with such a disability."
Birbal shook his head. "Jahanpanah, I disagree. I believe there are far more blind people in this city than there are people with sight. In fact, most of the people you see are actually blind."
Akbar laughed. "That is impossible! I see thousands of people going about their business with their eyes wide open. I bet you cannot prove this."
"I accept the bet, Majesty," Birbal said. "Meet me in the main marketplace tomorrow morning, and you shall see for yourself."
The Busy Weaver
The next morning, Birbal went to the center of the busiest market. He sat down on the ground with an old, broken wooden cot (a charpai). He took some colorful thread and began to weave the seat of the cot. He had a scribe sitting next to him with a large book and a pen.
Crowds began to gather. A merchant stopped and asked, "Birbal, what are you doing?" Birbal didn't look up. He whispered to the scribe, "Write down his name." Then he told the merchant, "I am weaving a cot."
A soldier walked by. "Birbal! Why are you sitting in the dirt weaving a cot?" Birbal told the scribe, "Write his name down too."
By midday, hundreds of people had passed by. Each one asked the exact same question: "What are you doing?" and to each one, Birbal gave the same answer, while the scribe’s list grew longer and longer.
The Emperor’s Visit
Finally, Emperor Akbar arrived with his guards. He saw Birbal working in the sun and walked up to him. "Birbal! What on earth are you doing here in the middle of the market?"
Birbal looked at his scribe. "Add the Emperor’s name to the list of the blind."
Akbar was furious. "Me? Blind? My eyes are perfectly fine! I can see you, I can see the cot, and I can see the thread!"
Birbal stood up and showed the Emperor the long list of names. "Majesty, every person on this list saw me sitting here with a frame and thread, clearly weaving a cot. Yet, they all asked me, 'What are you doing?' If they could see, they wouldn't have asked the question. They saw with their eyes, but their minds were blind to what was right in front of them."
Akbar looked at the list and then at the cot. He smiled, realizing that Birbal was talking about "mental blindness"—the habit of asking about things that are already obvious. "You are right, Birbal. We often look at things without truly seeing them."
The Moral of the Story
"Observation is different from just looking. Many people move through life with their eyes open but their awareness closed. True sight is the ability to perceive and understand the reality of what is happening in front of you without needing to be told."
Story 35: The Forbidden Word
One morning, Akbar was feeling particularly mischievous. He wanted to see if he could catch Birbal in a trap that didn't involve math or logic, but simple habit.
"Birbal," the Emperor said, "you are famous for your quick tongue. But I wonder if you can control it. I challenge you to spend the next twenty-four hours without saying the word 'No'. If you succeed, I will give you a thousand gold coins. But if you utter that one syllable even once, you must admit that I am the master of your speech!"
Birbal bowed, his eyes twinkling. "That sounds like a very agreeable challenge, Jahanpanah. I accept."
The Emperor’s Trap
Akbar spent the rest of the day following Birbal around, trying to force him into a corner.
First, Akbar pointed to a black horse in the stables. "Birbal, look at that beautiful white horse. Is it not the whitest horse you have ever seen?" Birbal replied, "Majesty, it is certainly the darkest shade of white I have ever encountered."
Later, at lunch, Akbar asked, "Birbal, do you think I am a terrible and cruel Emperor who hates his people?" Birbal bowed, "Jahanpanah, your kindness is so famous that such a thought could only exist in a dream."
Finally, toward the end of the day, Akbar lost his patience. He wanted to win. He looked at Birbal and asked a question that seemed to have only one possible answer.
"Birbal, tell me the truth. Is it possible for a man to walk on the surface of the sun and survive?"
The Final Move
Akbar leaned forward. Surely, Birbal would have to say "No, that is impossible."
Birbal smiled calmly. "Only a fool would suggest such a thing, Majesty. Since you are a wise King, you already know the answer is far from being a 'Yes'."
Akbar groaned. He had tried every trick, but Birbal had successfully avoided the forbidden word by using clever descriptions and indirect answers.
"Fine, Birbal!" Akbar shouted in mock frustration. "You have won. You haven't said it all day. But tell me, is there anything in this world that would make you say that word right now?"
Birbal looked at the Emperor and said, "I refuse to lose this bet so close to the end, Jahanpanah."
Akbar realized that even the answer to that question would have been a "No," and Birbal had avoided it yet again. He laughed and ordered the bag of gold coins to be brought out.
The Moral of the Story
"Discipline over one’s speech is a sign of a great mind. We often use words out of habit without thinking. If you can control your tongue and find creative ways to express the truth, you will never find yourself trapped by your own words."
Story 36: The Wise Kid
Word reached the capital of a village child who claimed that age had nothing to do with wisdom. This piqued Akbar’s interest. "Birbal," the Emperor said, "go to this village. If the boy is truly wise, bring him to court. If he is just a boaster, teach him a lesson."
Birbal traveled to the village and found a young boy sitting under a peepal tree. To test him, Birbal asked a tricky question: "Tell me, child, which is the most profitable business in the world?"
The boy didn't hesitate. "The business of lending, sir."
Birbal smiled. "Ah, so you mean a moneylender makes the most profit?"
"No," the boy replied. "I mean a person who lends a helping hand. The 'interest' they receive comes back in the form of blessings and loyalty, which no thief can steal and no fire can burn. That is the only profit that lasts forever."
The Pot of Wisdom
Birbal was impressed, but he decided to give the boy one more challenge. He handed the boy a thin-necked earthen pot. "The Emperor wants a pot full of wisdom. If you can fill this pot with wisdom and send it to the palace, you shall be rewarded."
The boy took the pot and asked Birbal to return in two months.
When Birbal returned, the boy handed him the same pot. Birbal looked inside. To his amazement, there was a huge, ripe watermelon inside the pot, perfectly filling the space. The neck of the pot was so narrow that the melon could not be pulled out without breaking the fruit or the pot.
"Here is your wisdom, sir," the boy said. "Tell the Emperor that he can have the wisdom, but he must take it out without breaking the pot or the melon."
The Court’s Reaction
Birbal brought the pot to Akbar. The Emperor was baffled. "How did he get a full-sized melon inside this tiny opening?"
Birbal explained, "He placed the pot over a tiny, budding melon vine and let it grow inside the pot. As the fruit grew, it took the shape of its container."
"The lesson," Birbal added, "is that wisdom, like the melon, grows to fit the vessel it is given. A small mind stays small, but a mind allowed to grow in a safe 'pot' of learning will eventually become something great. And the only way to get the wisdom out is to 'break' your old way of thinking."
Akbar was delighted and realized the boy was indeed a prodigy. He sent a carriage to bring the boy to Agra to be educated in the royal academy.
The Moral of the Story
"Wisdom is not measured by the number of grey hairs on one's head, but by the depth of one's understanding. True knowledge is like a fruit—it requires time, the right environment, and a curious mind to grow into something substantial."
Story 37: The Scholar’s Mother Tongue
A very learned scholar once visited the court of Emperor Akbar. He was a master of many disciplines and, most impressively, a polyglot who could speak more than ten languages—including Persian, Sanskrit, Arabic, and Turkish—with perfect fluency.
"Majesty," the scholar challenged, "I have traveled across many lands. No one has ever been able to tell which language is my true mother tongue because I speak them all without an accent. If anyone in your court can identify my native language by tomorrow morning, I shall acknowledge your court as the wisest in the world."
Akbar looked at his ministers. They interviewed the scholar for hours. He recited poetry in Persian and spoke philosophy in Sanskrit. He was so flawless that the ministers were completely stumped. Finally, the task was given to Birbal.
The Midnight Surprise
Birbal did not ask the scholar any questions. Instead, he waited until late at night when the scholar was fast asleep in the royal guest house.
Birbal crept into the room silently. He took a small peacock feather and began to tickle the scholar’s ear. The scholar stirred but didn't wake up. Then, Birbal took a small cup of cold water and sprinkled a few drops on the man's face while whispering loudly in his ear.
Startled and half-awake, the scholar sat up abruptly and shouted a string of words in frustration: "Yevaru idi? Em jarugutondi?" (meaning "Who is this? What is happening?")
Birbal slipped away into the shadows, smiling.
The Disclosure
The next morning, the scholar stood confidently in the court. "Well, Birbal? Have you discovered my secret?"
"Indeed," Birbal said. "The scholar’s mother tongue is Telugu."
The scholar was stunned. His jaw dropped. "But... but how? I didn't speak a word of Telugu yesterday!"
Birbal explained to the Emperor, "Jahanpanah, a man may master many languages for the sake of education or business. But in times of great danger, sudden pain, or sudden surprise, a man always reverts to his mother tongue. It is the language of his heart and his instinct."
The scholar bowed to Birbal. "You are truly a master of human nature. Telugu is indeed my native tongue."
The Moral of the Story
"Education can give you many 'masks' to wear, but your true nature is revealed in moments of crisis. Our roots are deeply embedded in us; no matter how far we travel or how much we learn, the foundation of who we are—our 'mother tongue'—remains at the core of our being."
Story 38: The Heat of the Lamp
One bitter winter night, Emperor Akbar was standing by the palace window, looking out at the frozen Yamuna River. He turned to Birbal and said, "I wonder if a man's need for money is stronger than his fear of the cold. Do you think a poor man would stand in that freezing river all night for a reward?"
Birbal nodded. "A hungry man will do almost anything for his family, Majesty."
Akbar announced a challenge: any man who could stand chest-deep in the frozen river for an entire night would receive two thousand gold coins.
A poor washerman named Ram accepted the challenge. Guards watched from the bank as the man stood in the icy water, shivering violently. To everyone's surprise, he survived until morning.
The Denial of the Reward
When Ram came to the court to claim his prize, Akbar asked, "How did you manage to survive the biting cold?"
Ram replied honestly, "Majesty, I kept my eyes fixed on a small lamp burning on the palace balcony far away. The thought of that warmth kept me going."
Akbar’s face hardened. "Aha! So you took heat from the palace lamp! That is cheating. You were warmed by the fire, so you have not truly beaten the cold. No reward for you!"
Heartbroken, Ram went to Birbal for help.
The Long-Distance Cooking
The next day, Birbal did not come to court. Akbar, concerned, went to Birbal’s house. He found Birbal sitting in his garden near a small fire on the ground. Hanging from a very tall tripod, nearly ten feet above the flames, was a small pot of khichdi (rice and lentils).
"Birbal, what are you doing?" Akbar asked, baffled. "The fire is down there, and the pot is way up there! The heat will never reach the food. You'll never be able to cook that way!"
Birbal looked up calmly. "Jahanpanah, if a poor man standing in a frozen river can be warmed by a tiny lamp on a balcony hundreds of yards away, then surely this fire can cook my khichdi from just ten feet below."
Akbar realized his injustice. He laughed at his own foolishness and immediately sent for the washerman, giving him the two thousand gold coins and an extra bag of jewels for his suffering.
The Moral of the Story
"Logic must be applied fairly. If you use a rule to deny someone their due, make sure that rule actually makes sense in the real world. A small ray of hope (like a distant lamp) is not the same as physical warmth, and we should never use technicalities to avoid being generous."
Story 39: The Fastest Traveler
One afternoon, Akbar and Birbal were sitting in the royal gardens, watching the clouds drift across the sky. The wind was blowing strongly, shaking the leaves of the neem trees.
"Birbal," Akbar said, "look at how fast the wind carries those clouds. It makes me wonder—what is the fastest thing in the universe? My generals say it is a galloping horse. My astronomers say it is the light from the stars. What do you say?"
The courtiers began to debate. "It is a falcon diving for its prey!" said one. "No, it is the lightning that strikes during a storm," argued another.
Birbal shook his head. "Majesty, all those things take time to travel from one place to another. But there is something that can travel across the entire world, and even to the heavens and back, in less than a heartbeat."
The Speed of Thought
"And what is this mysterious traveler?" Akbar asked.
"It is the Human Thought, Jahanpanah," Birbal replied.
To prove his point, Birbal asked the Emperor to close his eyes. "Now, Majesty, think of the city of Kabul where you spent your youth. Are you there?"
Akbar nodded. "Yes, I can see the mountains and the markets."
"Now," Birbal said, "think of the sun rising over the distant ocean."
Akbar smiled. "I see the golden water already."
"And finally," Birbal said, "think of yourself sitting right here in this garden."
Akbar opened his eyes. "In three seconds, my mind traveled thousands of miles and back again. You are right, Birbal. No horse, no wind, and no light can move as fast as the mind can imagine."
The Practical Lesson
Birbal added, "Because thought is so fast, Majesty, it is also the most dangerous thing. A person can think of an angry word before they have time to stop it. That is why a wise man must learn to govern his thoughts even more strictly than he governs his kingdom."
The Moral of the Story
"The mind is a powerful tool that knows no boundaries of space or time. Because our thoughts move faster than anything else, we must be careful to steer them toward kindness and wisdom. If you can control your thoughts, you can control your world."
Story 40: The Wicked Barber’s Plan
As Birbal’s fame grew, so did the jealousy of some of the court officials. Chief among them was the royal barber, who had the Emperor’s ear every morning. The barber, along with a group of conspirators, hatched a deadly plan to get rid of Birbal forever.
One morning, while shaving Akbar, the barber sighed deeply. "Majesty, I had a dream last night. I saw your late father in heaven. He looked happy, but he seemed a bit bored. He said he missed the witty conversation of a truly clever man."
Akbar, who loved his father dearly, was intrigued. "But how can I send someone to heaven to entertain him?"
The barber replied, "It is an ancient, secret ritual, Majesty. We build a large pyre. The chosen person sits upon it, and through the smoke and fire, their soul is transported directly to the celestial court. Only a man as wise as Birbal could navigate the journey and return with news of your father."
Akbar, blinded by his devotion to his father, actually agreed. He summoned Birbal and told him of the "mission."
The Request for Time
Birbal immediately saw through the trap. He knew the barber wanted him dead. However, he didn't argue. He simply said, "Jahanpanah, it is a great honor. But I need one month to settle my family affairs and prepare for such a long journey."
Akbar granted the request. During that month, Birbal did something very clever. He chose the spot where the pyre was to be built—right near his own house. He hired a few trusted laborers to dig a secret underground tunnel from the center of that spot directly into his private cellar.
The "Miraculous" Return
On the day of the ritual, Birbal sat on the pyre. The barber and his friends cheered as the wood was lit. As the smoke grew thick, Birbal quietly slipped through a hidden trapdoor into his tunnel and went home. He stayed hidden in his house for six months, letting his hair and beard grow long and wild.
Six months later, Birbal walked into the palace. The court gasped—they thought they were seeing a ghost! The barber turned pale and began to tremble.
"Birbal!" Akbar cried, embracing him. "You’ve returned! How is my father? And why do you look so... unkempt?"
Birbal bowed. "Majesty, your father is very well. He was delighted to see me. But I have returned with an urgent request from him. You see, there are no barbers in heaven. His beard has grown so long that he keeps tripping over it! He told me, 'Birbal, send me my own royal barber immediately.'"
The Final Cut
Akbar looked at the barber. "Did you hear that? My father needs you!"
The barber fell to his feet, confessing the whole plot. He admitted there was no "heavenly ritual" and that he had only wanted to kill Birbal. Akbar was furious. The barber and his conspirators were banished from the kingdom, and Birbal was rewarded for his narrow escape.
The Moral of the Story
"Those who dig a pit for others often fall into it themselves. Malice and jealousy lead to one's own destruction. True wisdom lies not just in outsmarting your enemies, but in being prepared for the traps that the world may set for you."
Story 41: The Honest Dispute
In a small village near Agra, a farmer named Madhav bought a piece of land from his neighbor, Keshav. While plowing the field for the first time, Madhav’s plow hit something hard. He dug it up and found a copper pot filled to the brim with ancient gold coins.
Most people would have kept the treasure, but Madhav was a man of high principles. He took the pot to Keshav’s house.
"Friend," Madhav said, "I bought the land from you, but not the treasure hidden beneath it. This gold belongs to you."
Keshav, equally honest, shook his head. "No, Madhav. I sold you the land and everything in it. The gold was in your soil, so it is yours. I have no right to it."
The two men began to argue—not over who got to keep the money, but over who had to keep it! Eventually, they brought the dispute to Emperor Akbar’s court.
Birbal’s Matchmaking
Akbar was amazed. "In a world full of greed, I have two men fighting to give away a fortune!" He looked at Birbal. "Since neither wants the gold, should we put it in the royal treasury?"
"No, Majesty," Birbal replied. "That would be an insult to their honesty. Let us find a way to keep the gold within their families."
Birbal asked the men if they had children. It turned out that Madhav had a wise son, and Keshav had a kind daughter.
"The solution is simple," Birbal announced. "Let the son and daughter be married to each other. The pot of gold shall be given to the young couple as a wedding gift. That way, the treasure belongs to both families, and neither man has to compromise his honesty."
The farmers were overjoyed with the idea. The gold was used to build a beautiful home for the newlyweds, and the rest was used to help the poor of their village.
The Moral of the Story
"Honesty is its own reward, but it often brings unexpected blessings. When two people act with integrity, a solution can always be found that benefits everyone. Conflict does not always have to result in a winner and a loser; sometimes, it can result in a union."
Story 42: The Crows of the Kingdom (Part 2)
Years had passed since Birbal first gave his famous count of the crows in Agra (, to be exact). One afternoon, while looking at the crowded palace battlements, Akbar decided to tease his friend.
"Birbal," Akbar said, "I have been thinking about your old crow count. I suspect you just made up a number to sound clever. I have ordered a secret census of the birds over the last month. My officials have counted every single crow, and their number does not match yours! There are at least five hundred more crows now than when you first spoke."
The courtiers held their breath. Was Birbal finally caught in a lie?
The Moving Relatives
Birbal didn't look worried at all. He bowed and said, "Jahanpanah, I told you then and I tell you now: my count was perfectly accurate. If your officials found more crows, it is very easy to explain."
"Oh? And how is that?" Akbar asked, leaning forward.
"It is the season of festivals, Majesty," Birbal replied with a straight face. "The extra crows you see have simply come from neighboring kingdoms to visit their relatives here in Agra for the holidays. Conversely, if your officials had found fewer crows, it would mean our local crows had flown away to visit their cousins in Persia or Kabul."
The Logic of the Impossible
Akbar burst out laughing. "You are impossible! You give a number that no one can truly verify, and then you provide an excuse that no one can possibly disprove! How can I argue with the travel plans of birds?"
Birbal smiled. "Majesty, when a king asks an impossible question, he must be prepared for a logical, yet impossible, answer."
The Moral of the Story
"Some things in life are not meant to be measured with perfect precision. Wisdom lies in knowing when to be exact and when to realize that the 'truth' of a situation is more about the wit and the moment than the actual statistics. A clever answer can often disarm a trap better than a long explanation."
Story 43: The List of Fools
One day, Akbar was in a cynical mood. He turned to Birbal and said, "I often wonder how many idiots live in my empire. Birbal, I want you to travel through the kingdom and find the ten biggest fools in the land. Write their names on a list and bring it to me in one month."
Birbal set off. A month later, he returned with a small piece of parchment. "Majesty, I have found them. But I must warn you, the names may surprise you."
Akbar grabbed the list. He scanned the first name and his face turned red with anger. "Birbal! The first name on this list is mine! How dare you call your Emperor the biggest fool in the world?"
The Reason Why
Birbal bowed low. "Please, Jahanpanah, hear me out. A month ago, you gave a huge sum of gold to a stranger from Persia who promised to bring you five hundred rare stallions. You didn't ask for his address, his family name, or any guarantee. You simply gave him the money and told him to return in a year. Is that not the act of a man who trusts too easily?"
Akbar argued, "But what if he actually brings the horses? What if he is an honest man?"
Birbal smiled. "If he actually returns with the horses, Majesty, I will simply erase your name and put his name at the top of the list! For only a fool would bring five hundred expensive horses to a man who gave him the gold without even checking his identity."
The Rest of the List
Akbar cooled down, realizing the logic. "Very well. But who are the others?"
Birbal pointed to the street outside. "The second is that man over there. He is sitting on a bullock cart carrying a heavy bundle of wood on his own head because he thinks it will make the load lighter for the bullock."
"The third," Birbal continued, "is a man I saw trying to catch a beam of moonlight in a bucket to use as a lamp for his house at night."
As Birbal went through the list, Akbar noticed there were only nine names. "Birbal, you have only listed nine. Who is the tenth fool?"
Birbal looked at the Emperor sheepishly. "The tenth fool is me, Majesty. For I have spent a whole month wasting my time looking for fools instead of doing something productive for the empire!"
The Moral of the Story
"We are all fools in our own way. Wisdom begins the moment we realize our own mistakes and stop judging the 'foolishness' of others. Be careful where you place your trust, and even more careful about how you spend your time."
Story 44: The Parrot That Never Died
A traveler once gifted Emperor Akbar a magnificent, rare parrot. "Majesty," the traveler said, "this bird is more intelligent than most men. But be warned: it is very sensitive. If anyone ever brings me the news that this parrot has died, I shall be so heartbroken that I will execute the messenger of such bad news!"
Akbar, fascinated by the bird, accepted the gift. He appointed a special servant to look after it, giving him a strict warning: "If this parrot dies under your watch, and you come to tell me, you will lose your head."
For two years, the parrot lived like a prince. But one morning, the servant found the bird lying at the bottom of its cage—cold, stiff, and very much dead.
The Impossible Message
The servant was terrified. He couldn't leave the bird there, but if he told the Emperor, he would be executed. He ran to Birbal, trembling with fear. "Birbal! The parrot is dead! If I tell the King, I die. If I don't tell him, and he finds out, I still die! Please help me!"
Birbal calmed the man. "Go back to your duties. I will deliver the news myself."
Birbal went to the royal court and sat down with a somber face. "Jahanpanah," he said, "I have just come from visiting your royal parrot."
"And?" Akbar asked eagerly. "What is my clever bird doing today? Is he reciting poetry? Is he eating his mangoes?"
The Careful Description
Birbal shook his head slowly. "Majesty, the parrot is in a very... peculiar state. He is currently lying on his back with his feet pointing toward the heavens. He does not open his eyes. He does not eat. He does not drink. He does not move even a feather. He does not breathe, and he does not utter a single sound."
Akbar jumped up, his face turning red. "Birbal! What are you saying? If he doesn't breathe or move or eat, then the parrot is dead!"
Birbal bowed low and smiled. "You said it, Majesty, not I. Since you are the one who has announced the news of the bird's death, there is no messenger for you to execute."
Akbar realized he had been outwitted by his own decree. He burst into laughter at Birbal’s cleverness and spared the servant’s life.
The Moral of the Story
"Words have power, and the way we deliver news can change the outcome of a situation. When faced with a dangerous or difficult truth, it is often better to describe the reality of the situation and let others reach the conclusion themselves, rather than being the bearer of 'bad news' directly."
Story 45: The Burden of the Crown
One particularly long day, Emperor Akbar threw his crown onto the table and sighed. "Birbal, no one understands the weight I carry. I must decide on taxes, wars, laws, and the hunger of millions. Being a King is the hardest job in the world. A beggar has it easy—he just sits, eats what he is given, and sleeps without a care."
Birbal smiled thoughtfully. "Majesty, every man thinks his own burden is the heaviest because he is the one carrying it. Would you like to test your theory? Let us swap your life with a beggar's for just one afternoon."
Akbar, always up for a challenge, agreed. He dressed in rags and sat near the gate of a busy mosque, while Birbal watched from a distance.
The Beggar’s Reality
At first, Akbar thought it would be peaceful. But soon, the sun began to beat down on his head. He had no water. A group of children ran by and kicked dust onto his face. A guard, not recognizing him, poked him with a stick and told him to move along.
When a wealthy merchant passed by, Akbar reached out his hand, expecting the man to be generous. Instead, the merchant spat on the ground and called him a "lazy scoundrel." By mid-afternoon, Akbar’s stomach was cramping with hunger, his skin was sunburnt, and he felt the sting of being invisible and unwanted.
He hurried back to the palace, where Birbal was waiting with a cool glass of sherbet.
The Lesson Learned
"Well, Jahanpanah?" Birbal asked. "Was it a relaxing afternoon?"
"It was miserable!" Akbar exclaimed. "The King has the burden of responsibility, but the beggar has the burden of survival. I have to worry about the law, but he has to worry about his next breath. At least when I am tired, I have a bed. When he is tired, he has only the hard earth."
Birbal nodded. "Exactly, Majesty. The King’s burden is heavy, but it is lined with gold. The beggar’s burden is light, but it is lined with thorns. No life is 'easy'; we simply trade one set of problems for another."
The Moral of the Story
"Comparison is the thief of empathy. Do not envy the life of another until you have walked a mile in their shoes. Every position in society has its own unique struggles, and true wisdom lies in respecting the hardships of everyone, from the highest king to the lowest servant."
Story 46: The Pool of Milk
One evening, Akbar was praising the honesty of his subjects. "I believe the people of Agra are the most truthful in the world," he said.
Birbal chuckled. "Majesty, people are honest when the sun is shining on them. But when they think no one is looking, even the best of men might take a shortcut."
To prove his point, Birbal proposed an experiment. A large stone pool was built in the center of the royal courtyard. A proclamation was made: "The Emperor wishes to create a 'Pool of White' for the festival. Tonight, every household in Agra must send one person to pour exactly one pot of pure milk into the pool. This must be done under the cover of darkness, so the purity is a secret between the citizen and the Heavens."
The Morning Surprise
The next morning, Akbar and Birbal walked to the courtyard to see the magnificent pool of white. Akbar expected to see a sea of ivory-colored milk.
Instead, they found the pool filled with clear, shimmering water. There wasn't even a trace of milk in it.
Akbar was stunned. "What happened? Did the milk turn into water by magic?"
Birbal shook his head. "No, Majesty. It was human nature. Each person thought, 'Since thousands of people are pouring milk, my one pot of water won't be noticed. In the dark, who will know? The pool will still look white, and I will save my milk for my own children.'"
The One White Drop
However, Birbal pointed to a tiny corner of the pool where a small, cloudy swirl of white was visible. One poor widow, who had nothing but a small cup of milk, had poured it in faithfully, believing everyone else would do the same.
"Honesty," Birbal said, "is not doing the right thing when you are being watched. It is doing the right thing when you are sure you can get away with a lie. Most of your subjects failed the test because they thought their small dishonesty wouldn't matter in a crowd."
The Moral of the Story
"Integrity is what you do when no one is looking. Many people excuse their own small mistakes by thinking 'it won't make a difference,' but a society is built on the individual choices of its citizens. Be the 'pot of milk' even when the rest of the world offers only water."
Story 47: The Painting of the Wind
One day, Emperor Akbar was in a particularly demanding mood. He summoned the finest artist in the empire and gave him a strange and impossible task.
"I have seen paintings of mountains, of wars, and of my own face," Akbar said. "But I have never seen a painting of the wind. I want you to paint the wind for me. I give you one week. If you fail, you shall be dismissed from my court."
The artist was devastated. He went home and tried to paint swirls of air, but it just looked like messy gray clouds. He tried to paint a storm, but Akbar said, "That is a painting of a storm, not the wind itself." Finally, the artist turned to Birbal for help.
The Invisible Masterpiece
A week later, Birbal entered the court carrying a large canvas covered with a silk cloth. The artist stood trembling behind him.
"Majesty," Birbal announced, "the artist has captured the wind in its purest form."
Akbar eagerly pulled away the silk cloth. His face fell. The canvas was completely blank and white.
"Birbal!" Akbar thundered. "This is nothing! There is no paint on this canvas at all! Is this a joke?"
Birbal smiled calmly and picked up a small hand-fan. He began to fan the Emperor gently. "Jahanpanah, can you see the air I am pushing toward you?"
"Of course not," Akbar replied. "Wind is invisible."
"Exactly," Birbal said. "The artist has painted the wind with such perfect accuracy that it is just as invisible as the real thing! To add color or lines would be to paint something else—like dust or leaves. This blank canvas represents the wind in its truest, most transparent state."
Akbar paused, then laughed. "You have used my own logic against me, Birbal. I asked for the impossible, and you gave me a masterpiece of the invisible."
The Moral of the Story
"Not everything that is real can be seen with the eyes. Some of the most important things in life—like love, wind, and wisdom—cannot be captured in a picture. Sometimes, the most 'accurate' way to represent the truth is to admit that it is beyond our physical sight."
Story 48: The Unlucky Face
In the city of Agra, there lived a man named Mangu who had a very strange reputation. People believed that if anyone saw his face first thing in the morning, they would have bad luck and go without food for the rest of the day.
This rumor reached Emperor Akbar. Being curious, he summoned Mangu to the palace and arranged for the man to sleep in a room next to his royal bedchamber. The next morning, as soon as Akbar woke up, he looked at Mangu's face before doing anything else.
A Day of Disasters
The day started terribly. During breakfast, a fly fell into the Emperor's soup, and he had to send the meal back. Later, while he was in the garden, he tripped over a stone and bruised his knee. Then, an urgent messenger arrived with news of a minor rebellion, forcing Akbar to spend the entire day in stressful meetings without a moment to eat.
By evening, Akbar was exhausted and hungry. "The rumors are true!" he shouted. "Mangu is a curse upon the kingdom. Because of his face, I have suffered all day. Guards, take him away and hang him at dawn!"
Birbal’s Logic
Mangu’s family rushed to Birbal, crying for help. The next morning, just before the execution, Birbal arrived at the gallows.
"Wait!" Birbal called out to the Emperor. "Before you hang this man for being unlucky, we must consider who is more unlucky. Mangu saw your face first thing yesterday morning, too, did he not?"
Akbar nodded. "Yes, he did. So what?"
"Well, Majesty," Birbal said calmly, "You saw his face and merely lost your lunch and bruised your knee. But he saw your face and was sentenced to death! Mathematically speaking, your face has brought him far worse luck than his face brought you. If he is to be hanged for being unlucky, then you should be hanged right beside him!"
Akbar stood silent for a moment. He realized that his bad day was just a coincidence, while his own decree was a genuine tragedy for an innocent man. He immediately ordered Mangu’s release and gave him a bag of gold coins to make up for the scare.
The Moral of the Story
"Superstition is often a way to blame others for our own misfortunes. Before you judge someone else as the cause of your problems, look at your own actions and the impact you have on others. Fairness requires looking at a situation from both sides."
Story 49: The Well and the Water
A farmer named Gopal bought a well from his neighbor, a cunning man named Shantilal. Gopal paid the full price and was excited to finally have enough water for his crops. However, the next morning, when Gopal went to draw water, Shantilal stopped him.
"Stop!" Shantilal cried. "I sold you the well, but I did not sell you the water inside it. If you want to take my water, you must pay me a gold coin for every bucket."
Gopal was shocked. "But what is a well without water? I bought the whole thing!" Shantilal just smirked and walked away. Distraught, Gopal went to the royal court to seek justice.
The Tenant’s Rent
Birbal listened to the story and sent for Shantilal. "Is it true," Birbal asked, "that you sold the well but kept the water?"
"Yes, sir," Shantilal replied proudly. "The contract clearly says 'the well.' It says nothing about the water."
Birbal nodded as if he agreed. "You are absolutely right, Shantilal. Since you sold the well, it now belongs entirely to Gopal. But since the water is yours, you have no right to keep it in Gopal’s well."
Shantilal’s smile faded.
"Therefore," Birbal continued, "you have two choices. Either you remove all of your water from Gopal’s well immediately, or you must pay Gopal rent for using his property to store your water. Since you have a lot of water there, the rent will be two gold coins per day, starting from this morning."
Shantilal realized he had been trapped by his own greed. He apologized, dropped his claim, and allowed Gopal to use the water freely from then on.
The Moral of the Story
"Greed often blinds a person to logic. When you try to use technicalities to cheat others, you leave yourself open to being defeated by those same technicalities. Fairness is the only way to ensure a lasting agreement."
Story 50: The Ultimate Wisdom
We have reached the end of our journey. Over the months and years, Birbal had solved hundreds of puzzles, saved many lives, and humbled the proudest of men. One evening, as the sun set over the Yamuna River, Emperor Akbar sat with Birbal in quiet reflection.
"Birbal," Akbar said softly, "we have talked about crows, stars, greed, and truth. But if you had to summarize everything—all the wisdom of the world—into just one sentence, what would it be? I want a sentence that is true in times of great joy and true in times of deep sorrow. A sentence that can make a happy man humble and a sad man hopeful."
The Five Words
Birbal took a stick and wrote five simple words in the sand at the Emperor's feet. Akbar looked down and read them. He stayed silent for a long time, and then he smiled, for he realized that these were the truest words ever spoken.
The sentence was: "This too shall pass away."
The Meaning of the Final Lesson
Birbal explained, "Jahanpanah, when you are at the height of your power and glory, remember these words, and you will remain humble, knowing that power is temporary. When you are in the depths of despair and pain, remember these words, and you will find the strength to endure, knowing that your suffering is also temporary. Nothing in this world—neither the crown on your head nor the dirt beneath your feet—is permanent."
Akbar embraced his friend. "You have given me the greatest gift of all, Birbal: the gift of perspective."
The Moral of the Story
"Change is the only constant in life. Understanding the temporary nature of all things is the key to emotional balance. Enjoy the good times without becoming arrogant, and face the hard times without losing hope, for time moves forward and everything eventually changes."
