Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 26 July 2025
Hark, ye perpetually bewildered and increasingly disheartened citizens of Sanctimonia! A message, delivered with the chilling finality of a royal decree, has arrived from the Super King via the party head. And oh, what tidings it brings! No cabinet expansion, a clear slap in the face to the eager “jolly fellas” in saffron. No metro in the city, dashing the hopes of commuters and the dreams of urban planners. And, in a truly Sanctimonian twist, a directive to “hoodwink the crime against women” by demanding “proper evidence if there is chain snatching.” This, dear readers, clearly demonstrates the utter lack of importance accorded to our local party representatives in the Super King’s formidable court. Their pleas, it seems, fall on deaf ears, or perhaps, simply get lost in the vastness of the Super King’s global agenda.
Meanwhile, our King’s Deputy, who had so swiftly dashed to the Super King’s capital to champion the self-immolation victim, has returned to Sanctimonia, her face a picture of profound frustration. Despite her valiant efforts, she could do little. The Super King’s Health Minister, a man presumably too busy collecting medals or keys to other cities, did not even deign to meet her. The victim, her life still dangling on a sword’s edge, remains in critical condition, while the police, ever diligent when the cameras are rolling, are now desperately trying to secure a statement from her.
Our Law Minister, though maintaining his signature sulk for public consumption, is reportedly a very happy man indeed on the inside. He knows, with the cynical certainty of a seasoned political survivor, that with the Super King’s clear disinterest, nothing much can truly happen. The status quo, however grim, suits him just fine.
And the metro! Ah, the metro! That grand vision, that symbol of progress, a project initially championed by our very own Jester, has now been consigned to the dusty shelves of forgotten proposals. The king and his men, it seems, simply could not comprehend the intricacies of the project. A complex network of underground tunnels? Automated trains? Far too much for minds accustomed to the simpler mechanics of bullock carts and royal palanquins. The Jester, predictably, is very unhappy, his usual comedic fire dampened by this bureaucratic inertia. The netizens, too, share his dismay, their dreams of efficient transport evaporating like morning mist.
Adding to the kingdom’s woes, the ongoing dispute over river water with the neighboring state remains unresolved, a festering sore that has now become a source of international amusement. The king, seemingly paralyzed by indecision, refuses to take up the matter, leaving Sanctimonia’s water rights to the whims of its more assertive neighbors.
Today, nothing, absolutely nothing, is happening in the kingdom. The usual chaos has given way to a stifling stasis, a vacuum of inaction. Everyone is worried, their faces etched with anxiety. The netizens, their voices a collective wail, look up to the Holy Triad, imploring them for salvation. They pray for a miracle, for a sign, for anything that might break this disheartening stalemate. Sanctimonia, it seems, is caught in a holding pattern, awaiting a divine intervention that may never come, while its leaders remain clueless, its projects stalled, and its people increasingly desperate.
