Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 17 June 2025
Hark, ye bewildered citizens of Sanctimonia! Our king, a man whose worries now outnumber his royal decrees, finds himself in a most perplexing predicament. His regal brow is furrowed, not by matters of state, but by the maddening dance of commodity prices. To increase what, and to decrease what? The royal ledger, it seems, has become a riddle wrapped in an economic enigma, leaving His Majesty in a perpetual state of fiscal paralysis.
Meanwhile, the Keeper of the Holy Triad, a venerable figure whose life revolves around the meticulous observance of sacred rites, is also a worried lot. Whispers, carried on the spiritual winds, speak of a grave transgression: the holy rituals of our beloved Triad are not being followed elsewhere! Not in the neighboring lands, where imposter temples rise, nor in the distant realms across the seas, where adherence to ancient custom seems as rare as a functioning traffic light in our capital.
Adding to this divine disquiet, a new sect has emerged within Sanctimonia itself, a group of self-proclaimed “guardians” of the Holy Triad. Their philosophy? To conduct rituals “as they like, in their whims and fancies.” Imagine the horror! A sacred dance performed as a jig, an ancient chant replaced by a jaunty jingle, offerings delivered via drone! The very fabric of spiritual order threatens to unravel.
In this escalating crisis of both commerce and consecration, all eyes have turned to the Titular King, a revered figure whose moral authority is as immense as his practical power is, well, titular. Requests have poured in, imploring him to pen a stern message to this rogue sect, urging them to adhere to the hallowed rituals as performed in the Sanctum of the Holy Triad.
But alas, even the most revered figures in Sanctimonia face their own unique challenges. The Titular King, ready to champion tradition, found himself in a rather embarrassing bind: he did not possess the “holy pen” required for such a momentous spiritual communiqué. A flurry of frantic searches ensued, leading finally to our Law Minister. He, still sulking in his corner (a permanent fixture, it seems, since the great liquor U-turn), was coaxed into handing over the pen. A cunning Casius he may be, but even he understood the gravity of a pen-less Titular King.
Thus, all is set. The Titular King has the pen, the spiritual authority, and the urgent pleas of a worried populace. But now, another, equally Sanctimonian problem has emerged: they don’t know how to write the intro! What celestial salutation? What pious preamble? The very first words of this crucial message hang in the air, as elusive as a stable economy.
The sufferers in all this, of course, are the queer-looking netizens. They gaze here and there, their expressions a mix of confusion and existential dread, waiting for the Titular King to finally put pen to paper. Their bald heads are being scratched with a vigor usually reserved for solving ancient riddles, pondering when, if ever, this message will emerge. The world, indeed, is chaos in Sanctimonia, a swirling vortex of economic woes, spiritual rebellions, and the agonizing wait for a single, perfectly crafted opening sentence. God save this kingdom, indeed. And perhaps, send a ghostwriter.
