Tenali praises a dish like poetry one week—and condemns it like a verdict the next, proving loyalty isn’t lying.
At the first banquet, the aubergine curry arrived shimmering with ghee and patience. Tenali tasted, closed his eyes, and bowed to the cook. “Matchless.” The emperor beamed.
Seven days later, the same dish came hurried and bitter. Tenali set his spoon down. “Your Majesty, this is unworthy.”
Courtiers pounced. “Your tongue bends with wind and favor!”
“My tongue bends with truth,” Tenali said. “Last week the brinjals were ripe, the spices married; today the oil is tired and the salt fights alone. Loyalty is refusing to lie for you.”
A murmur passed like a small storm. The emperor tasted again—grimaced, then smiled. “Send the cook home to rest. We honor the mouth that honors the palate.”
After that, Tenali’s compliments landed like medals and his criticism like medicine. The palace discovered food improves when praise cannot be bought.
That evening, a young page brought Tenali a bowl from the kitchens, nervous. Tenali tasted, then scribbled a line on a scrap: “Truth on the tongue keeps fire in the pan.” The boy pinned it above the stove.
The court learned the economy of honesty: praise minted only when deserved keeps every dish—and every decision—valuable.
