A trunk on one plot, fruit over another. Tenali measures ownership in peels, shade, and service—not shouting.
In court, both neighbors arrived armed with property talks and relatives. Tenali waved them quiet and sent runners—not for lawyers, but for brooms.
They swept both courtyards. One glittered with peels and sticky fingerprints; the other held logs stacked for winter.
“Where a tree feeds, it belongs in seasons of fruit,” Tenali ruled. “Where it stands, it belongs in seasons of wood. And the shade?” He pointed to a shared bench. “That belongs to everyone who sits without quarrel.”
The men blinked, then almost smiled. The emperor chuckled. Tenali had turned ownership into stewardship without using either word.
That evening, the neighbors placed a mat beneath the wall and shared mangoes with children from both homes. The peels piled up, and so did neighborly jokes. The tree fed stomachs and fires; the bench fed friendship. Law grew kinder when measured in peels, not pride.
