A gatekeeper’s palm won’t open without ‘oil.’ Tenali brings a jar labeled BRIBE—containing a copper and a reckoning.
Before the guards, Tenali uncorked the jar. Inside lay one copper coin and a note: “This bribe is too small to corrupt a gatekeeper—but large enough to start a trial.”
The emperor lifted an eyebrow; the gatekeeper turned a delicate shade of fear.
“Let’s raise the bribe,” Tenali said cheerfully, “in reverse. Fine him a hundred coins for every citizen delayed this week.”
Clerks fetched ledgers. The sum bloomed spectacularly. The gatekeeper fell to his knees. “Here is a different economy,” Tenali said. “Doors that swing on hinges, not on hands.”
The fine stocked the poorhouse for a month. The jar remained on a shelf in the audience hall, a small museum exhibit titled What Used To Be Necessary.
The gate opened for free; the jar stayed as warning. Corruption hates souvenirs.
