Satya, Bhubaneswar, 17 June 2024
Ah, Sanctimonia! The holy city where piety and politics tango in a dance of divine dysfunction. The new council, fresh-faced and full of fervour, has taken the reins, only to discover that governing a city of saints is akin to herding cats in a thunderstorm.
The two deputy chiefs, bless their souls, resemble bewildered cherubs lost in a theological debate. One clutches the sanitation portfolio, fretting over the proper disposal of holy water, while the other grapples with public relations, attempting to spin the recent crowd control fiasco in the sanctum into a tale of spiritual enlightenment. Meanwhile, a disgruntled council member sulks in the corner, his dreams of heading the sacred relic department dashed like a chalice dropped from a trembling hand.
The city’s bureaucracy, renowned for its ability to generate paperwork faster than a monk can chant a mantra, is in a frenzy. The newly elected prince, a man of discerning taste and questionable fashion sense, demands a new residence. The palace architect, a nervous wreck with a penchant for gargoyles, is desperately trying to reconcile the prince’s desire for a modern, minimalist abode with the city’s strict adherence to gothic architecture.
The city’s police force, still reeling from the embarrassing incident in the sanctum where a pilgrim mistook a misplaced sandal for a holy relic, are on a frantic search for evidence. Unfortunately, their efforts are hampered by the fact that the only witness, a nearsighted hermit with a penchant for hallucinogenic herbs, claims to have seen a vision of a winged donkey ascending into the heavens.
As for the citizens of Sanctimonia, they are a confused lot. The recent three-day festival, a riotous affair involving questionable dancing and excessive consumption of sacramental wine, has left them feeling spiritually drained and morally ambiguous. The local taverns are overflowing with repentant sinners seeking solace in a flagon of ale, while the confessionals are backed up for miles with tales of debauchery and questionable liaisons.
And so, life in Sanctimonia stumbles on, a glorious mess of piety, politics, and pratfalls. The new council, with its wide-eyed idealism and utter incompetence, is a beacon of hope and a source of endless amusement. The future of the city is uncertain, but one thing is for sure: it won’t be boring. After all, in a place where even the pigeons leave droppings that resemble holy symbols, anything can happen.
