A Straight Remedy for a Round King
Retold by Anjali Amit
There was once a king who ruled over a vast and prosperous land. There was never a shortage in his kingdom. Agriculture flourished because the soil was fertile and the weather balmy. Rivers criss-crossed the land, providing water for the farmer, and acting as freeways for the transportation of goods. So industry flourished, and trade was brisk.
The people were busy in their work, and contented. Truth to tell there was not much for the king to do. So he decided he had to develop some interests and hobbies of his own.
His subjects applauded the thought, and were full of suggestions.
"Archery’s is a noble pursuit," said the chief minister. "A hobby fit for kings." So the best bowman of the kingdom was called to instruct the king. All the materials were got in readiness and the lessons began. Soon the twang of the bow, and the thwack of the arrow filled the morning air.
The archer taught the king how to lift the bow and aim true. "Close one eye, Sire, and sight along the target." The king did as he was asked.
The royal tailor stitched a velvet patch for the king to put over his eyes so it would be easier to keep one eye shut. "Now what do you see Sire?" asked the instructor when the patch was in place.
"The green grass," the king replied. "The white target board with the five circles on it."
The archer pulled his hair in despair. "Look carefully Sire," he said. "Shut out all other sights and concentrate on the innermost circle." The king tried for a few days, but it seemed like too much work.
"I have great archers in my army. That is not a skill I need," said the king. "What I would really like to learn is how to write great poetry. My words should clang if I talk of armor, and hum when I describe the bees."
The Poet Laureate was summoned to instruct the king.
"Your Honor, let us begin our writing classes with some reading," he said. "Let us fill our minds with good thoughts, and absorb the language of the great writers."
The king struggled manfully with his reading. But the instructor had made a strategic mistake in placing the classroom where the smell of good cooking assailed their nostrils.
"O woe is me," thought the king. "My mind fills up but my stomach rumbles emptily. But I can call for a snack," he thought.
So the king snacked while he studied.
Soon the reading seemed to be too much work.
"I am the ruler," he said. "I can command the best writers to couch my thoughts in impressive language."
"Be gone," he said to the Poet Laureate, "to your ivory tower. I will seek another hobby."
The royal chef, who was passing by, heard these words. "Sire," he said with a deep bow, "the appreciation of good food is a hobby worthy of kings."
"Then onwards chef," said the king. "That is what I will cultivate."
The king learned to distinguish good cooking from bad. He ate good meals. The chef, who was now Instructor to Royalty, outdid himself in the variety of meals he presented to the king. The king woke up in the morning with a snack, and between meals and the business and conference of the day he snacked.
One day he felt uncomfortable in his clothes.
"Seems like the tailor is scrimping on cloth and making my gowns too tight," he said. The tailor made the clothes larger and larger. The king’s hobby was proving expensive for he outgrew his clothes so soon.
Then he started tiring easily, and shortness of breath overtook him every time he climbed the stairs. The councilors grew worried. They called for help. The dieticians set up special diets and the king tried them all.
He went on a fruits-only diet. That didn’t work. He tried eating only grains. He cut out sugar, he cut out salt. He ate more vegetables, he ate less meat. But through all the diets the king snacked.
"Surely these small tit-bits will not harm me," he reasoned.
Nothing worked. There came a day when the king could not climb the four steps to his throne, and a porter was called in to help him. Like everyone else in the kingdom the porter was aware of the king’s plight. As he helped the king onto the throne he whispered into his ear, "Your Majesty has only forty more days to live."
The king’s face paled. He stumbled, then steadied himself against the porter.
"Only forty days," he whispered. He thought sadly of all the things he had wanted to do. The king wrote a letter and gave it to the chief minister to be opened on the forty-first day.
"The porter is our honored guest. Allow him the best of food and lodging. He will stay with us for forty-one days," he instructed. The ministers were puzzled but did not question the actions of their king. The porter was regally lodged and feasted, and wondered how such good fortune could have befallen him.
The king grew listless. Nothing interested him. In vain did the cook tempt him with good food. The king barely looked at the dishes brought to the table. He counted off the days on a large calendar, and grew more fearful at the thought of approaching death.
Even putting on his royal robes seemed a chore. "Ah gown, soon you will be displayed in a museum as the property of the weightiest king on earth," he muttered one day. As he put on the gown, he noticed that it hung loosely about him.
"The tailor is getting forgetful," said the king. He asked him to make the clothes a size smaller. Next week as he put on his trousers they slipped down.
The king bent down to pull them up. "I can actually bend down again," he thought. "Something is happening. Maybe it is not the tailor who forgot, but I who have become thinner."
Then every week the tailor stitched new clothes-a size smaller each time.
Thirty-nine days went by. The king awoke on the fortieth day with a heavy heart. ‘My last day on earth,’ he thought.
He smiled wanly and tried to be extra good and kind to everyone he met. Before retiring for the night, he called all his ministers and wished them good night and goodbye. Only the porter realized the significance of that.
The forty-first day dawned. The porter was up early. He looked towards the king’s chamber, waiting for his majesty to appear. Suddenly he heard a loud shout.
"I’m alive, I’m alive. Today is the forty-first day and I am alive." The courtiers, councilors and ministers heard the king’s shout and came running.
"Call the porter," said the king to the nearest minion. The porter, who had been waiting for such a summons, appeared immediately. "Well sir, what do you have to say for yourself?" demanded the king. "I have proved you wrong."
"Your majesty," said the porter, "worry and will power are the two things that move a person. Since one did not seem to be working I thought I would try the other."
The king looked at himself. He had never felt fitter in his life. He gave the porter a royal hug and awarded him a plaque that read:
