A city begged for rain. Tenali delivered barrels, drums, and a schedule—then real clouds followed the rehearsal.
The drought cracked clay and tempers. Wells coughed. Priests sang. The sky remained a miser. Tenali asked the emperor for carts, barrels, and drummers who could keep time with hope.
Night one, ox carts brought river water to doorstep jars. Before dawn, drummers rolled slow thunder through alleys. People woke to a sound their bones remembered and found barrels leaning against their doors like promises that had kept themselves.
Children squealed; elders scolded the sky for tardiness. Tenali stood in the square. “We cannot pull clouds,” he said, “but we can move water—and moods. Plant now; this week your roots will drink on schedule.”
Women filled pitchers. Men patched channels. Boys chased the drummers until laughter outran worry. On the fourth day real thunder stumbled over the hills, surprised to be late to its own ritual. Rain arrived as if embarrassed and poured like an apology.
When the storm ended, the city kept the drums—not as superstition, but as calendar. On lean years they beat time while carts arrived. On fat years they beat time for dances. Either way, people worked while waiting. The sky, accustomed to being begged, learned to be joined.
Tenali’s invoice read: “For rain delivered in two parts—human and heavenly.” The emperor paid both.
