Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 30 June 2025
Hark, ye grief-stricken and utterly outraged citizens of Sanctimonia! A pall of profound sorrow has descended upon our hallowed land, a shadow cast not by divine displeasure, but by human folly. The grand annual outing of the Holy Triad, a day of unparalleled spiritual joy, has been tragically marred by a stampede in front of the sacred chariots. Devotees, once filled with fervent devotion, now lie still, their lives extinguished, while countless others bear the wounds of a preventable disaster.
The collective finger of Sanctimonia points, with righteous indignation, at the Administration – specifically, the Collector and the Superintendent of Police. Everyone knew, with a certainty as solid as the Holy Triad’s chariots, that these were the individuals ultimately responsible. Yet, the grim truth, whispered through the grieving crowds, is far more insidious. The entire administrative and security apparatus, from the lowest constable to the highest official, was utterly preoccupied. Their focus was not on the safety of the devout masses, but on the comfort and convenience of the “important VVIPs” – those political brethren from far-off lands who had graced our procession with their presence, lured by promises of lucrative investments in the kingdom.
But the true architects of this tragedy, the masterminds of this sacred stampede, are none other than our Law Minister and the Temple Administrator. Their policy, a well-oiled machine of mutual benefit, can be summed up succinctly: “You scratch mine, and I’ll scratch yours.” While the faithful jostled for a glimpse of divinity, these two cunning individuals were busy hoarding, their pockets bulging with commissions disguised as “donations.” Every sacred offering, every heartfelt contribution, seemingly funneled into their illicit coffers, leaving the safety of the populace as a mere afterthought.
The sufferers, as always, are the long-suffering netizens and the common people of Sanctimonia. Their faith shaken, their hearts heavy with loss, they now watch as violence erupts in the capital, targeting administrative officials. The frustration, the anger, the sheer helplessness has boiled over, turning grief into rage.
And our king? He is a truly hapless figure, pacing his multiple residences, his face a mask of confusion and despair. He cannot get control of things. The reins of power, it seems, have slipped through his fingers, tangled in a web of corruption, negligence, and misplaced priorities. His grand pronouncements, once met with a mix of awe and amusement, now ring hollow against the cries of the injured and the wails of the bereaved.
All eyes now turn to the horizon, scanning for a single, solitary beacon of hope: the return of our beloved Jester. He, whose wit could cut through the thickest of bureaucratic lies and whose laughter could lighten the heaviest of hearts, is the only one who can truly articulate the tragic farce that has befallen Sanctimonia. His return, it is hoped, will bring not just solace, but perhaps, a much-needed dose of accountability. For in a kingdom where sacred processions turn fatal due to greed and negligence, only the unvarnished truth, delivered with a jester’s fearless candor, can truly begin the healing. God save Sanctimonia, indeed, from its own self-inflicted wounds.
