A strutting general demands garlands at every parade. Tenali crowns him with onions first—and reforms follow.
The crowd hooted; the general flushed. Tenali bowed. “Onions make honest men cry. Wear them first, and if your eyes stay dry, perhaps you deserve roses.”
The emperor’s mouth twitched. “A soldier’s perfume is sweat, not petals,” Tenali added.
The decree changed: parades less, drills more; garlands reserved for campaigns finished, not marches scheduled. The onion braid hung in the mess hall, pungent and instructive.
Months later, after a flood rescue the general led without trumpets, the city crowned him with marigolds so heavy he needed a friend’s shoulder.
The onions withered; the lesson didn’t. Honors smell sweetest when earned late and worn lightly.
