A shopkeeper’s shaved scoop cheats the poor by a mouthful. Tenali returns the haircut—and the lesson.
Grain was cheap only in rumor. In truth, a clever scoop had been planed thin until each measure shaved a bite from hunger. Tenali bought a sack, weighed it on a public scale, and smiled like a man meeting an old trick.
He returned the scoop—thinner. With it, a note: “You sold me less; I sell you less.” The shopkeeper paled, seeing his own arithmetic in the mirror.
Crowds gathered. Tenali poured grain using the doctored scoop. The shortfall showed itself like an honest shadow. “Trust,” he said, “is measured in handfuls. Shave one, you shave all.”
The shopkeeper fetched his father’s old measure, stout as a proverb, and promised restitution. Tenali nodded. “From today, keep a public weight on your counter. Let the poor audit you with their eyes.”
By evening, other stalls displayed scales. The phrase “Tenali’s haircut” entered the bazaar dialect—meaning a consequence that fits perfectly.
Later, the shopkeeper sent a sack of flour to the temple kitchen. The old measure hung above his counter, a wooden oath. Grain flowed. So did trust. It turned out customers prefer fairness to theater—especially when theater steals lunch.
