A tailor doubles prices before parade day. Tenali threads competition through the street—and the gouge unravels.
On the eve of inspection, uniforms split at elbows like opinions. The tailor smiled and posted a ‘parade surcharge.’ Soldiers muttered; wallets squeaked.
Tenali sat on a stool outside the shop with a basket of needles and a sign: FREE STITCH FOR FAIR PRICE. He worked quickly, badly at first, then better. The queue at the tailor’s door thinned like patience.
By sunset the tailor stepped out, sweating thread. “All right,” he said. “Regular prices.” Tenali packed his needles but left one on the doorframe like a nail of memory.
The next morning uniforms held. The parade impressed without perfumed arithmetic. Later, the tailor mended Tenali’s coat gratis. “A fine,” Tenali said, “paid in kind.”
Word traveled: gouging invites pop‑up justice. Markets began to self‑correct with stools, signs, and a little courage. The empire discovered competition makes an excellent sermon—short, sharp, and easy to memorize.
