Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 4 July 2025
Hark, ye long-suffering and increasingly bewildered citizens of Sanctimonia! Our king, a man whose brow is now perpetually furrowed by the weighty matters of public image, has embarked on a grand “clean-up spree.” Yet, even as he attempts to polish his tarnished reputation, the specters of Casius, Brutus, and even the minor villain Casca, seem to haunt his every step, a constant reminder of the conspiracies that lurk in the royal shadows.
His first target in this image rehabilitation campaign? The rebellious Kingsman who, in a fit of misplaced loyalty (or perhaps just plain thuggery), had assaulted a Municipal Official. After much royal persuasion, and presumably a stern talking-to from a very large, unseen hand, the Kingsman reluctantly surrendered to the police. The grapevine, ever buzzing with inconvenient truths, attributes this sudden act of compliance to the conviction of a certain lady senator, whose eloquent pen (and direct line to the Super King) proved more powerful than any royal decree.
With the rogue Kingsman safely (if reluctantly) behind bars, the administrative officials, who had bravely gone on strike, have now returned to their posts. A sigh of relief, one might think! But alas, the “clean-up” has merely shifted the problem. The mountains of pending paperwork, left untouched during the strike, have now grown into veritable Himalayan peaks, adding to the already colossal piles of bureaucratic backlog. The citizens, yearning for efficient governance, now face an even more daunting paper trail.
Adding insult to injury, the cost of milk has continued its upward trajectory, leaving the netizens, once again, up in arms. Their cherished morning tea, a sacred ritual in Sanctimonia, has become a luxury. And as if navigating the economic minefield wasn’t enough, walking the very streets has become an extreme sport. The “clean-up” of drains has merely resulted in mountains of putrid dirt piled high on the already encroached roads, creating an obstacle course of filth and frustration.
As the Holy Triad prepares to retreat to their sanctum after their annual outing, the king is left pacing the palace grounds, round and round, like a bewildered dog chasing its own tail. He is utterly lost, unsure which crisis to tackle first. “Hey king, be quiet and take things in hand!” the netizens silently implore. But alas, his DNA, it seems, is not that of a decisive leader. He remains metaphorically lost in the jungle, trying to find a way out of the tangled mess he presides over.
The absurdity of the situation has reached such a peak that the netizens, a truly confused lot, have started visiting the veterinary hospital. Their logic? If the king is acting like a dog, perhaps they too will develop canine tendencies, and it’s better to take precautions, much like one would for a new strain of COVID.
In one corner, amidst this swirling vortex of confusion, incompetence, and impending doom, our Jester, miraculously, is having the time of his life. His health check-up, it seems, has restored his comedic faculties, and he finds endless amusement in the king’s canine pacing and the citizens’ veterinary anxieties. Meanwhile, the sulking Law Minister and the Temple Head Administrator, their faces a picture of innocent diligence, are already back to their old tricks, undoubtedly hatching another cunning conspiracy, their minds buzzing with new ways to profit from Sanctimonia’s perpetual chaos. God save the kingdom, indeed, from its own leaders.
