You wouldn’t believe me if I said this story is fictional. You wouldn’t, even if I told you that any resemblance between its characters and real people is pure coincidence. So, I won’t argue the point—let’s go straight to the story.

There was an empire ruled by Emperor Kambhoja. In this modern age, monarchs are rare—but Kambhoja was one, a ruler of his time. Though kingship had vanished in most parts of the world and people elected their leaders, his empire remained untouched by that change. Around thirty vassal kings governed under him. The Emperor’s word was law. Whatever he said, the nobles obeyed without hesitation. Perhaps that explained their peace and prosperity.

The Emperor’s pronouncement became scripture—his thought, the decree. All laws were drafted as he wished. Taxes, levied and collected at his command. The same with judgments—he alone decided them. No appeals, no reviews, no delays. People received speedy justice.

When people’s representatives from abroad visited his court, Kambhoja questioned them about how their countries were governed. He learnt that in some nations, the head of state was chosen every four or five years by popular vote. That astonished him. Judges delivered verdicts independent of the ruler’s will, he was told, and sometimes even reviewed their leaders’ decisions. That left him unsettled.

He mulled over these systems, and something within him began to change. Perhaps his own empire, too, could be modernised. When he mentioned it to his minister, the man only nodded—what else could a minister do when an Emperor spoke?

The Emperor resolved to establish a judicial system. He proclaimed that it must function independently and, like in those other lands, even review royal decrees.

He also allowed the vassal kings some freedom—to make laws suited to their own territories. The world took notice. Foreign commentators praised him lavishly, and he basked in their admiration. His subjects, too, rejoiced.

Years passed. The courts began striking down some of the very laws he had enacted. The nobles, using their new autonomy, started acting on their own, and the courts upheld their decisions.

Every so often, the Emperor felt uneasy—but he could not think what to do. Four of his decrees had been annulled. Worse still, the courts started excessively supporting the independence of the vassal kings.

“This won’t do,” he muttered. One morning, he summoned his minister.

The minister entered, bowed respectfully, and stood before him.

The Emperor gestured towards a chair. “Sit, Minister,” he said.

The man hesitated. “Please speak, Your Majesty,” he replied, still standing.

“Sit down, I insist,” said the Emperor firmly, pointing to the seat opposite.

The minister sat at last, though uneasily. The Emperor’s unexpected politeness unsettled him—it seemed the calm before a storm.

“Minister, I’m deeply displeased with the state of our empire,” said Kambhoja.

The minister blinked. “I beg your pardon, Sire—I don’t follow.”

“This judicial system,” said the Emperor bitterly, “I’m not pleased with the way it behaves. I wrote four statutes—they’ve struck them down. I dismissed a vassal king—they’ve ordered his reinstatement.”

“Yes, Sire,” the minister answered cautiously.

“I created this system myself, didn’t I? But now it’s turning against me. I’m beginning to think we should abolish it. What do you say?”

The minister did not quite know what to say. He remained silent.

“Why are you quiet?” thundered the Emperor.

The minister swallowed. He knew if he did not say something, he would lose his job. He muttered, “O King of Kings, it’s true this system has become a thorn in our side. You’re its creator, and you have every right to dissolve it. But—” he faltered.

“But what?” snapped the Emperor.

“Only this, Your Majesty. The system earned our empire great respect abroad. If we abolish it now, that goodwill might vanish. And don’t forget—the international banks started generously lending to us only after we set it up. They might be put to inconvenience.”

The Emperor frowned, thinking hard. The argument seemed reasonable enough.

“What should we do then?” he asked.

“Give me a day, Sire,” said the minister. “I’ll consider and return with a plan.”

“Those judges have been asking for an extension to their retirement age, haven’t they? Think about that—it might prove useful,” said the Emperor.

“That won’t solve anything, Sire,” replied the minister quietly. “It’ll only extend our troubles for a few more years.”

They sat in silence for a while. Then the minister took his leave of the Emperor and walked out of the palace.

~*~

The next morning, before dawn, the Emperor sent for him again. He had hardly slept. The minister’s objections had annoyed him, and he still had no solution to his problem.

When the minister arrived, the Emperor’s voice was sharp. “Well, Minister? Have you thought of something?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I have an idea,” said the minister, pausing only for effect.

“Out with it, then,” said the Emperor impatiently.

“Instead of extending the judges’ service,” said the minister, “create new posts for them after retirement—honorary positions. Let’s appoint a few more to oversee the administration of the vassal kings’ territories. That way, they’ll remain dependent on your goodwill.”

“Do you think it’ll work?” asked the Emperor.

“It will, Sire. Who turns down power? When you offer them fresh authority, they’ll remain loyal. They won’t challenge your decrees, and through them we can keep the vassal kings under discreet control.”

Emperor Kambhoja’s face brightened. The logic appealed to him—it even gave him hope. He looked warmly at the minister, who felt a surge of triumph. 

“And,” the minister added smoothly, “your international reputation will only grow, not diminish.”

The Emperor was pleased. He ordered that an acre of land in the city’s main square be granted to the minister. New offices were created, appointments made, and soon the empire ran exactly as he wished.

The Emperor lived—happily ever after.

Original in Teleugu, translated into English by Rajeshwar Mittapalli.

“The Democratic Emperor” (titled “Prajaswamya Raju  Katha” in Telugu) by Mangari Rajender ‘Zimbo’ was first published in Thangedu fortnightly, July 16-31, 2021, and later included in his collection of short stories titled Nenu... Naa Nalla Kotu (Me… My Black Gown), published by Prose Poetry Forum, 2024.

Mangari Rajender ‘Zimbo’ is an eminent judicial officer, jurist, legal educator, and writer with over forty years of service. Starting as an advocate in 1982, he entered the Judicial Service in 1989 and served across Andhra Pradesh and Telangana as Senior Civil Judge, Additional District & Sessions Judge, and Judge, Family Court, known for fair and humane judgments. He also contributed to legal education as Faculty at the AP Police Academy, Director of the AP Judicial Academy, and Member of the Telangana State Public Service Commission. A pioneer in delivering judgments in Telugu, he authored over fifty law books, six poetry anthologies, and six short story collections, including Hazar Ho, Okka Kesu Chaalu, Maa Vemulawada Kathalu, and Nenu... Naa Nalla Kotu. He last served as Director, Telangana State Judicial Academy, until August 2024.