Tenali Rama's jokes usually landed like flowers, but one unlucky day a jest landed like a stone. Before visiting ambassadors, he mimicked the king's grand new turban style so perfectly that the whole court, and even the guests, roared with laughter — and Krishnadevaraya, made to look foolish before strangers, did not laugh at all. The jealous courtiers, who had waited years for such a moment, poured oil on the fire. "Today it is your turban, Sire; tomorrow it will be your throne he makes ridiculous."
In a blaze of wounded pride, the king pronounced the sentence he would regret by nightfall: "For insulting the crown — death!" The court went cold. But royal custom, older than any king's anger, allowed a condemned man one final wish. "Ask," said Krishnadevaraya stiffly, "anything but your pardon. I give you my word as king it shall be granted."
Tenali bowed with unusual meekness. "My family is provided for, Sire; and my soul is at peace. I ask only one small courtesy — since I must die, let me at least choose the MANNER of my death. That is my last wish." It seemed a modest request. "Granted," said the king. "Choose, then, how you will die."
Tenali straightened, and the old spark returned to his eyes. "Then, Your Majesty, I choose to die — of old age."
For a heartbeat the hall was silent as a held breath. Death by old age! To honour his word the king must let the jester live out his full years; to break it was unthinkable. The courtiers' faces fell like unstrung puppets — and Krishnadevaraya began to laugh, deeper and freer with every breath, until his anger had nowhere left to live. "Rogue! You have escaped through a door I built with my own promise!" He stepped down and embraced Tenali. "Live long, then — my word is now your bodyguard." And Tenali Rama did live long, they say, and joked to the very end — though he was always, ever after, respectful on the subject of turbans.