Birbal and the Faithful Gardener
When the wise man Birbal had made a name for himself, people came from far and wide to consult him.
This day, Birbal arrived home to find a pretty woman resting on his doorstep. “Come, come, sister,” he said, helping her to her feet. “I have some good mangoes here. Let us go inside, and we’ll share sorrows, eh?”
Seated on the floor of Birbal’s hut, the woman toyed restlessly with her fruit. “Ah, I don’t know what you can do, bhaia,” she sighed, “but the Emperor has arrested my husband! He has always been a faithful subject and devoted servant, and he works hard as a gardener for the Emperor but…Please help us. Please come,“ she wept, “I know my husband will want to see you.”
Soon after, Birbal presented himself at the palace jail, and requested an interview with the new prisoner. The guards, recognising the wise man, led him to the gardener's cell.
Seated in a corner, the gardener stared at the wall. His fingers twisted about in his lap, and his eyes were red with weeping. When the cell door clanged open, he closed his eyes. “I am not hungry,” he said. “You are welcome to my food.”
“Ah,” laughed Birbal’s escort, said the kind-hearted guard. “I would not take your khichiri! Now, come forward and smile, for I bring a guest.” Turning his head, the unfortunate gardener opened his eyes—then rushed forward to greet the wise man. “Birbal!” he cried. “How is my wife? Was she well when you saw her?”
“Ah yes, bhaia, she was, she was in her body. But her heart …” he shrugged. “She is worried for you.” Shaking his head, the other man sank to the ground, then pulled his knees into his chest. “All for a stone,” he murmured. “I am jailed because of a stone!” Slow and creaking, Birbal sat down. “Come bhaia,” he said gently, “tell me all about it.”
The gardener sighed. “I suppose…you did come to see me, after all. But Birbal! Even you cannot help me now!” Birbal leaned forward, silent and patient.
“Yesterday, the Emperor walked in the royal garden, and he was in a very poor mood, shouting and cursing. The other gardeners and some of the courtiers ran off and hid, but I was planting in the herb beds, near the kitchen, and so I didn’t hear His Majesty’s steps.
"Just as he reached my herb beds, the Emperor stumbled, tripping on a small stone lying on the path. He cursed even louder now and his face grew red with rage. And, and then, seeing me nearby, he shouted that I had neglected my work and demanded the guards place me under arrest!” Dipping his head, the gardener stared at the ground. “I am being executed tomorrow. And all because of a silly stone!”
Birbal laid a hand on the gardener’s shoulder. “Ah, bhaia,” he said. “We shall see. We shall see.”
The next morning, the gardener was brought before the Emperor, as was the custom. “Well?” grunted the Emperor. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Glancing at Birbal—who made the tiniest of nods—the gardener strode toward the throne, then spat at the Emperor’s feet!
Quickly, Birbal stepped forward. “Your Majesty,” he said, “Please excuse this gardener. He is as faithful to you as your most loyal servant, and obedient as the best-behaved children.”
The Emperor raised his eyebrows. “Birbal!” he shouted. “What nonsense is this? Why do you defend this man, when he has just insulted me?”
Birbal shrugged. “Since you are going to execute my good friend for something as silly as a stone in the path, he thought he may as well earn his hanging.”
Sighing, the Emperor waved toward his guards. “Release the gardener, and see that he is compensated,” he said. He looked at the wise man. “And we, Birbal, shall go for a walk in the garden.”