To the court of Krishnadevaraya there once came a scholar with an astonishing gift. He spoke Tamil to the Tamil pundits and they swore he was Tamil-born; he bargained in Kannada, joked in Marathi, recited in Sanskrit, sang in Telugu — each tongue as flawless as a native's. Bowing to the throne, he laid down his challenge: "Great King, let your famed pundits name my mother tongue. If none can, let it be proclaimed that in the land of Vijayanagara, no scholar could fathom one traveller's speech."
For three days the pundits circled him like fishermen round a slippery fish. They startled him with sudden questions in six languages; he answered each in the same language, smiling. They watched him pray, eat, and haggle. Nothing slipped. The wager looked lost — until Tenali Rama said, "Give me one night, Your Majesty."
That evening Tenali befriended the guest, praised his genius, dined with him, and walked him to the finest guest chamber. Late at night, when the palace slept and the scholar lay deep in his first dreams, Tenali crept to his bedside with a single stalk of dry grass — and gently, gently tickled the sleeping man's ear.
The scholar shot up, slapping at his ear, and cried out in fright and fury — in ringing, unmistakable Telugu: "Who is it! Is there a scorpion in this bed?!" "Forgive me, a mosquito troubled you," murmured Tenali from the shadows, and wished him good night.
In the morning, before the full court, Tenali announced, "The honoured guest's mother tongue is Telugu." The scholar stared — then laughed, and touched Tenali's shoulder in respect. "How did you know? Not one word of Telugu have I favoured above the rest." "By daylight, sir, you speak with your learning," said Tenali, "and your learning wears many splendid costumes. But fear knocks on the heart's own door — and the heart answers only in the tongue its mother taught it." The king rewarded them both, and the scholar left Vijayanagara gladly defeated.