A court poet demands a purse per stanza. Tenali pays in copper—and sends him to the only judge that matters: the crowd.
Tenali handed the poet a copper‑heavy purse with a couplet pinned on top:
“Coins for lines is fair, my friend—
Now find the crowd you owe at end.”
“Perform in the bazaar,” Tenali said, “where praise is made of bread. Return when applause buys a meal.”
Under awnings and dust motes, the poet learned to cut pomp, sharpen punchlines, end on echoes that made shopkeepers nod. Coins followed, thin but honest.
Back at court, his verses landed like rain after heat. The emperor smiled, guards forgot to look stern, and Tenali slid a second purse across. “Now you are expensive,” he said, “because you are useful.”
The poet kept both purses—the copper one and the public one—and never again priced a stanza without first pricing a smile.
