In his autobiography, Beim Häuten der Zwiebel, (Alfaguara, 2007, p.91) Günter Grass tells the following anecdote.

“Day after day a ceremony took place presided upon by the lieutenant in charge of the armoury who, on principle, bore always a serious countenance. He handed out the guns and we caught them one by one till all the men were armed. It would seem that every member of the Work Service should feel honoured when he felt the wood, the metal, the butt, the barrel of his rifle.

The exception was a tall young man, blond as wheat, with blue eyes and a classical profile that one would find only in an encyclopaedia of the Nordic Races. A Sigfried next to Baldur, the god of Light. He spoke clearly and precisely when answering a command. Nobody was stronger in the long race, nor bolder in the dangerous jumps. Nobody was quicker when it was question of climbing in seconds over a high wall. He could bend his knees fifty times without flinching. It would have been easy for him to win any championship. Nothing, no one defect stained his image. Yet that young man, whose name and surname have been erased from my memory, became for me a true exception because of his disobedience.

He just did no want to learn how to use a weapon. Even more, he refused to even touch its butt or its barrel. Even worse, when the deadly serious lieutenant put the gun in his hands, he dropped it to the ground. Was there any more grievous fault than for a soldier to drop on the dust his gun, his rifle, his ‘sweetheart’ as referred to in military slang? He would do anything with a shovel when he was ordered. In his dealings with his companions he was exemplary. He was always ready to help anyone, he was a fine character, always ready to oblige with a smile. He polished the boots of his roommates, cleaned up with brushes and clothes, and the only thing he refused to do was to hold the gun, the rifle, the 98 model whose use he had to learn as pre-military instruction.

He was punished in every possible way, but to no avail. We asked him questions, we tried to convince him for his own good because we liked him, ‘catch it!’, ‘handle it!’. His answer was only a few words which soon became a formula we murmured to each other. I cannot count the times the show was repeated, how the officers became irritated, but I try to remember how the lieutenant and the officers vituperated him:

     - Why do you do that, Member of the Work Service?
     - Why do you do that, you idiot?

His answer, which never changed, become a formula which has stuck in my mind and deserves being quoted:

     - We don’t do that.

They punished him, they put him under arrest, they ‘dismissed’ him as they said. We never knew about him. We never knew who ‘we’ were, and it was not known that he belonged to any special group. But he never touched a weapon. He remained in my memory as someone worthy of admiration, as a model. We don’t do that.

Akbar was trying to unify the Hindu, Muslim, and Christian religions for the welfare of the country, but was not succeeding in his effort. One day a foreign dignitary came to Akbar’s court and challenged Birbal in front of all. He asked him: “I have seen many crows in your city, and I know you have the means to ascertain in detail all that happens in your capital. Can you tell me the exact number of the crows that are today in Agra?”
All felt humbled and worried as there was no possible answer to that question. But Birbal simply said he would count them and give the exact number the following day.
Next day, in the midst of the general expectation and of the ironical smile of the foreign dignitary, Birbal stood in the midst of all and declared: “Yesterday there were 47,835 residing crows in Agra, and 618 in passing.”
“How do you know it?”, protested the visitor.
“If you have any doubt, you can verify the number on your own”, countered the vizier.
All bowed in approval and smiled in their moustaches. Birbal also bent his head towards Akbar and told him in his ear: “The same happens to the three religions. Who can verify their claims?”

Tansen was the musician at Akbar’s court, and Akbar praised him as the greatest musician alive. Birbal said, “Tansen does not think so. He insists that his guru Haridas is the greatest musician alive.”
Akbar asked for Haridas to be brought to the court, but he was informed that Haridas was a free man and would not obey orders. Akbar then decided to visit Haridas in Brindavan. Tansen went with Akbar and Birbal, and asked his guru to sing, but Haridas answered, “I cannot sing by order even if I try it. I can sing only when the inspiration comes out from within me.”
Akbar was disappointed and angry, but Birbal told him to take leave of Haridas and settle anonymously to spend the day and the night hidden behind a tree nearby. After a long night, when the first rays of the sun at dawn rose in the sky, Haridas began to sing softly and went on weaving a haunting melody through the morning.

When he finished, Akbar came again to Haridas and thanked him. Birbal explained, “Tansen sings when the king tells him to sing; while Haridas sings when God tells him to sing. That is the difference.”