Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 24 June 2025
Hark, ye long-suffering citizens of Sanctimonia! Our king, a man whose presence is usually synonymous with his beloved birthplace and its local libations, has embarked on an unprecedented journey. He has ventured to a far-off destination, ostensibly to “pacify the netizens” in an area where the distressing rise in crimes against women has reached truly alarming levels.
One might expect a king on such a serious mission to be solely focused on justice. But this is Sanctimonia, and our king, ever the multi-tasker, has simultaneously offered a staggering 500 golden sovereigns for the beautification of a local temple. This unexpected detour from his usual gastronomic pilgrimage (where the rice beer – handia – and mahuli flow freely) has left the netizens utterly bewildered. “Why here?” they whisper, “And not his usual haunt?” The suspicion hangs in the air, thicker than the local mahuli fumes. Is this genuine concern, or merely a strategically placed golden distraction?
Meanwhile, back in the sacred heart of Sanctimonia, a different kind of crisis unfolds. The Holy Triad, having concluded their ritual bath, are now deep in their hibernation within the hallowed confines of the Holy Sick Room. The Holy Druid, a figure of ancient wisdom and meticulous counting, had diligently prepared 313 doses of rare herbal medicine for their divine recuperation. But now, a horrifying revelation: 70 doses are missing!
The temple administration, their faces a mask of righteous indignation, immediately declared it a “conspiracy against him.” The whispers of revenge against the servitors, ever simmering since that rather undignified “humpty dumpty fall” of one of the Holy Triad, have now reached a fever pitch. Who would dare pilfer divine dosages?
Enter our Law Minister, who, despite still sulking (a permanent facial expression, it seems), miraculously appeared to declare that “nothing has been stolen from the royal medicine store.” His insistence, while comforting to some, only deepened the mystery for the discerning netizens. If it’s not stolen, did it evaporate? Did the Holy Triad consume them all in their sleep?
But the Law Minister, ever keen to assert his authority where it causes maximum inconvenience, has now set his sights on the upcoming royal procession of the Holy Triad. His latest decree: “No wine shall be served in the Holy City!” This has sent a collective shiver of dread through the innkeepers, whose livelihoods often depend on the celebratory spirits flowing during such grand events. In a rare display of unified defiance, they have taken a solemn vow: “We will not serve food to the King and his stooges till they clear the bill!” The echoes of unpaid past catering bills reverberate through the hallowed streets.
The netizens, caught between a crime wave, a baffling royal detour, missing divine medicine, and a looming food boycott, simply do not know what to do or where to look. Their usual source of comic relief, their fun-loving Jester, is still unwell, undergoing treatment in a far, far away land, leaving them without a single laugh to buffer the blows of absurdity. Sanctimonia, it seems, is left to navigate its multiplying woes without a guiding hand, a proper medicine cabinet, or even a good joke.
