Workers faint under noon hammers. Tenali moves the schedule, not the sun, and the bridge rises at night.
The river burned back the eyes at midday. Men swung hammers into air that pushed back. A minister proposed more coins; a priest proposed more prayers. Tenali proposed a clock.
“Bricks don’t care about moonlight,” he said. The emperor shrugged permission.
Work shifted. By dusk the river turned polite; by night it became generous. Torches lined the scaffold; hammers learned a cooler rhythm. Families brought bread and stories. Children counted stars into piles of encouragement.
The bridge finished early. Paint dried in mornings that now felt optional. The minister claimed efficiency; the priest claimed answered petitions. Tenali called it calendar repair.
Years later travelers crossed in shade that the superstructure made on purpose. A plaque at the midpoint read: MOVE WHAT YOU CAN—TIME IS LIGHT IN DISGUISE. People touched it for luck and arrived less tired on both banks.
