In a village near Agra lived a hardworking farmer whose fields were dry and thirsty. His neighbour, a cunning man, offered to sell him a fine old well. The farmer emptied his savings, paid the full price, and went home happy — at last his crops would drink their fill.
The next morning, when the farmer lowered his bucket into the well, the neighbour came running. “Stop, stop! What do you think you are doing?” he shouted. “Drawing water from my well,” said the farmer, surprised. The cunning man smirked. “I sold you the well, my friend, not the water inside it. If you want the water, you must pay for it separately — one coin for every bucket!”
The poor farmer was stunned. He pleaded and argued, but the neighbour would not budge. So the farmer walked all the way to Agra and rang the great bell of justice at Emperor Akbar's court. Akbar heard the strange complaint and turned, as he often did, to Birbal. “This puzzle is yours,” he said.
Birbal summoned the neighbour. “Did you sell this well to the farmer?” he asked. “I did, huzoor,” said the man confidently, “but only the well. The water is still mine. It is written nowhere that I sold the water.”
“Very well,” said Birbal, stroking his beard. “The well belongs to the farmer, and the water belongs to you. Then tell me — by what right do you keep YOUR water inside HIS well? Either pay the farmer rent for every single day your water sits in his well, or take all your water out at once and carry it home.”
The cunning man's face went pale. Take the water out? Impossible! Pay rent every day? Ruinous! He fell at the emperor's feet, confessed his trickery, and declared that the well and every drop in it belonged to the farmer.
Akbar smiled with pride. Greed had dug a pit, and Birbal's wisdom had made the greedy man fall into it himself. The farmer went home, watered his fields, and blessed Birbal with every bucket he drew.