A ‘holy’ cat gets silk cushions and gold bowls—until Tenali replaces luxury with duty and the rats finally notice.
The palace priest swore the cat’s sanctity required offerings. “Rats fear blessed whiskers,” he intoned, tucking his stipend away. The granaries still rustled at night.
Tenali took charge for a week. The silk vanished, the gold bowl turned to clay, the milk to water. “Sacred beings,” Tenali said, “thrive on duty, not luxury.”
Night fell. With no cushion to sink into and no cream to dream over, the cat remembered it was a cat. By dawn, two rats lay arranged like a confession.
The priest bristled. “You insult the divine!”
“I recruit it,” Tenali said. “When comfort becomes the job, the job dies.”
He presented the emperor with a new title for the feline: Mouser‑in‑Chief. Salary: scraps and thanks. Authority: absolute over vermin.
Within a month, granaries slept. Grain tallied up like hymns that finally rhymed. The cat kept its collar; the priest lost his racket. Piety stayed in the temple; performance left the payroll.
