The Praise of the Brinjal

One evening the royal cooks served a dish of brinjal, cooked with spices and onions and a little tamarind. The Emperor Akbar tasted it and smiled.

“Excellent,” he said. “Birbal, isn’t the brinjal the finest of all vegetables?”

“Without doubt, Your Majesty,” said Birbal at once. “It is the king of vegetables. Look at its shining purple skin, as rich as royal silk. And it wears a little green crown on its head. No wonder it tastes so noble.”

Akbar was pleased, and he ate brinjal that evening, and the next evening, and the evening after that. By the end of the week he was thoroughly sick of it. When yet another plate of brinjal appeared on his table, he pushed it away.

“Birbal, the brinjal is a horrible vegetable. It’s bitter and slimy and tasteless.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” said Birbal. “A miserable vegetable. Do you know, that is why it has no proper flavour of its own. And look at it, with that ugly little cap on its head, like a thief who has stolen a crown.”

The Emperor put down his spoon and looked at him narrowly. “Birbal! Only a week ago you told me the brinjal was the king of vegetables. Today you call it a thief. Which is it?”

Birbal bowed. “Your Majesty, I serve you, not the brinjal. If you are pleased with it, I am pleased with it. If you are not, why should I stand up for a vegetable?”

Akbar stared at him, then roared with laughter. “At least you are honest about your flattery.”

“There is a lesson there too, Your Majesty,” said Birbal, more quietly. “Many people at court will agree with whatever you say today, and the opposite tomorrow. It is worth remembering when you ask for advice.”

The Emperor stopped laughing and nodded slowly. And after that, whenever a courtier praised something too quickly, Akbar would murmur, “Brinjal,” and smile.