Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 21 June 2025
Hark, ye long-suffering citizens of Sanctimonia! The day of reckoning arrived, ushered in by the grand, if slightly terrifying, presence of the Super King himself! Our monarch, his face a curious blend of anxious sweat and forced smiles, emerged with a meticulously prepared “dairy” – presumably, a journal of his “achievements” from the past year.
With a flourish that belied the trembling in his knees, the king began to enumerate his triumphs. He spoke of “developments” achieved, though the specifics remained as elusive as a stable potato price. He even presented a detailed count of his pilgrimages to his own birthplace, each journey meticulously tallied, complete with the number of “foundation stones” laid. Of course, these foundation stones were entirely conceptual, laid without the messy inconvenience of actual stone or cement, existing purely in the realm of royal pronouncement.
He then ventured into the perilous territory of “written wars” waged against neighbouring countries. A noble pursuit, indeed, were it not for the inconvenient detail that these wars were fought “without any pen.” The reason? The Titular Head, still grappling with the sheer existential dread of his pen-wielding duties, had apparently refused to write. A war of words, fought without words. Truly, a Sanctimonian masterpiece of absurdity.
The king even dared to mention the restoration of the Holy Triad’s treasure room, a project whose progress report remained conspicuously absent, thanks to the Law Minister’s ongoing sulk over the infamous liquor policy U-turn. One could almost hear the Super King’s “super cane” tapping impatiently.
Perceiving their monarch’s increasingly precarious defense, the Kingsman deputies, in a sudden flash of (self-serving) brilliance, interjected with a diversionary tactic. “Super King,” they declared, their voices dripping with reverence, “we believe a new style of clothing would truly honor this momentous occasion!” The Royal Tailor, a man accustomed to cloaking royal flaws in lavish fabrics, was immediately summoned. His task: to create garments so magnificent that the “true color” of the Super King and our own king could be seen during the grand procession. The “true color” being, one assumed, sheer, unadulterated power.
And so, they donned the magnificent garments, feeling resplendent, convinced they were the epitome of royal fashion. They stepped out for the procession, chests puffed, heads held high. The crowd roared, a sea of adoring faces… until a small voice, clear as a bell, pierced the celebratory din. A child, innocent of political maneuvering and sartorial deception, pointed a tiny finger and declared, with an honesty that only a child possesses: “Look! The Super King and the King have no clothes!”
Silence. A horrifying, deafening silence. The super cane paused its tapping. The king’s carefully constructed narrative crumbled faster than a dry biscuit. They had no words. No progress report to defend their naked truth. No grand achievement to cloak their bare ambition.
In a fit of pure, unadulterated rage, fueled by the humiliating sting of a child’s honesty, the king did the only thing a Sanctimonian king knows how to do in a crisis: he increased the milk price.
The netizens, once again, are a worried lot. Not just about the rising cost of dairy, but about their collective fate. How can one possibly make a good rice pudding, a staple comfort food, when milk prices are through the roof and the Holy Triad themselves are in the “holy rest room” battling a “holy fever” after their recent holy bath? They are praying, not for miracles, but for royal attire. For in Sanctimonia, a king with no clothes is far more dangerous than a king with no plan. The Jester, bless his foresight, is safely away at his health check-up, leaving the kingdom devoid of laughter, only the hollow echo of a child’s inconvenient truth.
