Birbal Counts the Crows

It was a lazy afternoon in Agra. The sun was hot, the court was sleepy, and the Emperor Akbar was bored. He looked out of the window at the crows squabbling on the palace walls, and a mischievous idea came into his head.

“Birbal,” he said, “you always have an answer. So tell me: how many crows are there in Agra?”

The courtiers sat up at once. Some of them had been waiting for years to see Birbal stumped, and this, surely, was the day. Nobody could count every crow in a city that size. They hid their smiles behind their hands.

Birbal didn’t look worried at all. He walked to the window, gazed at the sky for a long moment, and moved his lips as if he were counting. Then he turned and bowed.

“There are ninety-five thousand, four hundred and sixty-three crows in Agra, Your Majesty.”

The Emperor raised his eyebrows. “So exact! And how can you be so sure?”

“If Your Majesty doubts me, you are welcome to have them counted.”

Akbar leaned forward, enjoying the game. “And suppose I do. Suppose my servants count them, and there are more than ninety-five thousand, four hundred and sixty-three?”

“Then some crows from the nearby towns have come to Agra to visit their relatives,” said Birbal.

“And if there are fewer?”

“Then some of our Agra crows have gone off to visit theirs.”

For a moment the hall was silent. Then the Emperor threw back his head and laughed so loudly that the crows on the wall flapped away in fright. The courtiers laughed too, although a few of them laughed rather sourly.

“Birbal,” said Akbar, wiping his eyes, “one day I will ask you a question you cannot answer.”

“Your Majesty may certainly try,” said Birbal, and he went back to his seat.

The Emperor ordered a bag of silver to be given to him, and for the rest of the day, whenever a crow cawed outside, Akbar would smile and say, “Ah, there goes another visitor.”