Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 11 December 2025
Hark, ye bone-rattled, directionally challenged, and financially squeezed citizens of Sanctimonia!
Today, we pen a missive not of joy, but of supreme navigational distress. Our King, a man who believes that the flash of a camera is the only light required to guide the kingdom, has outdone himself.
It seems the Royal Treasury has found a sudden surplus of Rs One Crore plus not to fill the craters that pass for roads in Jeypore and Koraput, but to hire a Brand Ambassador for handloom sarees. The logic is undeniably Sanctimonian: If the citizens look glamorous in their handlooms, perhaps no one will notice they are breaking their spines while driving over the potholes.
The Road to Nowhere
Oh, beloved King, awake from your photo-op induced slumber! To drive to Jeypore is no longer a journey; it is an extreme sport, a gamble with mortality. There are no road markers, no milestones, and certainly no signage. The roads are a glorious mystery, much like your administration’s policies. One does not know where the road leads, or indeed, if it leads anywhere at all other than to the nearest orthopedic clinic.
While you smile for the cameras with celebrities, your subjects are playing a high-stakes game of “Guess the Highway” with their families in the backseat, praying to the Holy Triad that the next bump doesn’t swallow their chariot whole.
The Minister’s Hilltop Fiefdom
And now, we turn our gaze to the Deputy Chief Minister, our illustrious Tourism Minister. A visit to the majestic peaks of the kingdom—Talamali, Kaliamali, and Deomali—reveals that tourism has indeed been “developed,” but only for a select bloodline.
The grapevine, that ever-reliable source of hill-station intelligence, whispers loudly in Talamali. It seems the very earth has been leased out to the Minister’s nephew, who, in a display of trickle-down economics, has leased it further to three “goons” who now rule the roost.
In this high-altitude cartel, a simple plate of two-minute instant noodles is sold at rocket prices. It is no longer a snack; it is a financial investment. The common netizen must mortgage their jewelry just to slurp some soup.
The Continental Conspiracy of Deomali
In Kaliamali, the signage is as absent as the King’s awareness. One must wade through villages, begging locals for directions like a lost explorer from a bygone era, all while navigating roads that would make a mountain goat weep.
But the crowning glory of absurdity lies in Deomali. The prime space, the very heart of the peak, has been commandeered by goons. You cannot park your chariot without paying a tribute to the local mafia. And the food?
Oh, the irony! In the heart of our tribal lands, the food contract has been gifted to a person from a far-distant kingdom. The weary traveler, yearning for a taste of the land, is denied Indian food. Instead, they are forced to consume Continental food!
Imagine, dear netizens, sitting on the highest peak of Sanctimonia, surrounded by indigenous beauty, and being forced to eat a soggy croissant because the Minister’s contractor deems it “classy.”
The Plea of the Netizen
Now, dear netizens, you understand how the kingdom runs. The roads are unmarked death traps, the hills are family businesses for the ministers, noodles cost a king’s ransom, and the local cuisine has been exiled in favor of foreign fare.
And please, do not blame the Jester. He is merely watching from the sidelines, likely eating a reasonably priced meal in a place with actual road signs.
We look to the sky, to the Holy Triad. Save the kingdom from the Brand Ambassadors, the nephews, and the continental caterers.
God save Sanctimonia.
