I can sizzle like bacon,
I am made with an egg,
I have plenty of backbone, but lack a good leg,
I peel layers like onions, but still remain whole,
I can be long, like a flagpole, yet fit in a hole.
I am the black child of a white father, a wingless bird, flying even to the clouds of heaven. I give birth to tears of mourning in pupils that meet me, even though there is no cause for grief, and at once on my birth, I am dissolved into air. What am I?
Once while in his court, King Akbar asked Birbal to write something on a wall that makes one sad when read in good times and makes one happy when read in sad times.
He took only a few moment and wrote something that fit the requirements. What did he write?
