Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 1 June 2025
Hark, ye long-suffering denizens of Sanctimonia! Our beloved monarch, having concluded his arduous (and no doubt spiritually enriching) duties in the hallowed land of the Holy Triad, has finally deigned to return to our bustling capital. And what a return it has been! The city, once merely a charming tapestry of ancient architecture and modern chaos, has now been transformed into a veritable billboard jungle.
One cannot walk five paces without encountering a grinning visage of His Majesty, plastered on every available surface. Lampposts groan under the weight of his royal smile, walls are wallpapered with his regal profile, and even the occasional stray dog seems to be sporting a miniature, adhesive version of his face. But wait, there’s more! Not content with his own omnipresence, the king has also generously shared the spotlight with the “super king,” his esteemed mentor from the super capital. Their combined visages now dominate the urban landscape, creating a visual cacophony that has turned our once-dignified city into the undisputed talk – and indeed, the central joke – of the entire realm.
The sheer volume of these royal proclamations has left our capital looking less like a seat of spiritual power and more like a particularly enthusiastic fan convention. Citizens navigate through narrow thoroughfares, their necks craning to avoid colliding with a larger-than-life royal eyebrow or a disembodied “super king” hand gesture. The air itself seems thick with the scent of fresh ink and royal ambition.
But amidst this monumental display of royal ego, a curious absence has been noted. Not a single Kingsman, not a solitary deputy, not even a humble bureaucrat’s earnest face graces these ubiquitous declarations. It’s a two-man show, a royal double act basking in the unadulterated glow of self-promotion. This singular focus has not gone unnoticed by those who actually do the king’s bidding, or at least, attempt to.
The Head Priest, whose spiritual authority usually dwarfs all earthly concerns, is reportedly experiencing an unprecedented level of anxiety. His usual serene meditations are now punctuated by mental calculations of how many more royal faces can possibly fit on the temple walls. The Law Minister, whose grand pronouncements normally fill the air, has found his voice strangely muted amidst the visual cacophony, perhaps realizing that in a city where every surface screams “King!”, his own legal pronouncements might simply fade into the background. And the Deputy Ministers? They are simply… bewildered, their roles seemingly reduced to mere spectators in this grand, plastered parade. One can almost hear their silent laments: “Do we even exist anymore? Are we just disembodied voices in the royal echo chamber?”
The netizens, ever vigilant and prone to collective anxiety, are in a particularly worried tizzy. They scroll through their feeds, sharing photos of particularly egregious poster clusters, debating the psychological implications of such visual dominance, and wondering if this is a new form of royal mind control.
As the sun sets over a capital city smothered in royal propaganda, casting long shadows over its confused populace, the cries for divine intervention grow louder. For in a land where even the walls have eyes (and those eyes belong solely to the king and his super mentor), the very fabric of governance seems to be unraveling, one glossy poster at a time.
