In the royal garden of Vijayanagara grew a bed of brinjals so famous that poets praised their flavour. They were reserved for the king's table alone, and guards watched the garden day and night.
Now Tenali Rama's wife had tasted that curry once at a palace feast, and she could not forget it. "Just once more," she sighed, "and I would ask for nothing else." Tenali resisted for a week — then, one moonless night, he slipped over the garden wall, picked two glossy brinjals, and brought them home. His wife cooked a curry whose very smell was a festival.
As they ate, she said, "Our boy loves brinjals. Let me wake him and give him a little." "No!" whispered Tenali. "If anyone asks, a child will tell the truth!" But a mother's heart won, and the sleepy boy ate his fill and went back to bed. Tenali sat thinking. Then he drew water from the well, gently poured a mug over the sleeping boy, dried him, changed his clothes, gave him a spoonful of supper again, and tucked him in. The confused child slept at once.
Sure enough, the missing brinjals were discovered, and suspicion fell on Tenali. "Children never lie," said the minister. "Ask his son." The king asked, and the boy said brightly, "Yes! Last night I ate brinjal curry. Then it rained, I had a bath, I ate dinner again, and went to sleep!" The courtiers looked at one another — not a drop of rain had fallen that night. "The poor child is telling us his dream," they laughed, and the matter was dropped.
But King Krishnadevaraya caught the twinkle in Tenali's eye and understood everything. "The brinjals I lost," he said later, "were cheap tuition for the lesson that a clever man guards his own house best. Next time, jester — just ask me for the brinjals." Tenali bowed very low indeed.