Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 21 July 2025
Hark, ye bewildered and increasingly despondent citizens of Sanctimonia! A chilling dread has once again gripped our kingdom, for another young girl has been tragically doused with kerosene and immolated. The horror of it casts a long, dark shadow, mirroring the previous, unsolved case. The police and our much-vaunted “crime preventers” are, as usual, utterly clueless, unable to unearth a single shred of evidence. It seems the very air of Sanctimonia has a peculiar way of dissolving incriminating clues.
In a rare flicker of awareness, the Deputy in whose constituency this latest atrocity occurred has finally woken from his customary slumber. In a desperate bid for face-saving, he has dispatched the victim to the Super King’s kingdom for “treatment.” There, the Super King’s Senator has magnanimously taken charge, though what will truly happen remains shrouded in the mists of political expediency.
Conspicuously absent from this unfolding tragedy is our Law Minister. The grapevine, that ever-reliable source of inconvenient truths, whispers that he has gone into hiding, perhaps fearing uncomfortable questions about his department’s chronic inability to solve anything. None of the Kingsmen, those usually boisterous defenders of the realm, are anywhere to be seen, shying away from any semblance of responsibility. The police, true to form, remain as clueless as ever, their investigative skills apparently limited to shrugging.
But wait! A glimmer of hope, or at least, a new form of entertainment, has arrived! Our beloved Jester, fully recovered and brimming with a renewed sense of purpose, has returned! He has taken up the mantle of fighting the king, but with a weapon as absurd as the situation itself: a water pistol! And lo, another jester, this one from a rival party, has joined him, also armed with a water pistol! Thus, the impending duel with the king promises to be a triangular, splashy spectacle in the capital state.
The netizens, as always, are dumbfounded, their eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and morbid curiosity, watching to see who will win this bizarre aquatic battle for supremacy. They yearn to join the fray, to fight for justice and accountability, but alas, they possess no ammunition, only their collective sighs and furrowed brows.
Talks about human rights are, of course, ongoing. But who will speak for the voiceless? That, indeed, is the million-sovereign question. The latest report suggests that the human rights members are, at this very moment, enjoying a rather nice lunch, their discussions perhaps punctuated by the clinking of cutlery rather than the cries of the oppressed. Even the women senator, who once so diligently whispered secrets to the Super King, is nowhere to be seen, perhaps having found a more comfortable perch away from the kingdom’s fiery woes.
“Ooh!” cry the netizens, their voices a collective lament, as they look up to the Holy Triad, imploring them to save the kingdom. Their only remaining hope, it seems, rests on the outcome of this peculiar duel between the king and the two jesters, a fight where the only thing truly at stake might be who gets the wettest.
