Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 18 June 2025
Hark, ye bewildered denizens of Sanctimonia! A tremor of both anticipation and profound dread ripples through our sacred land, for the Super King himself is descending upon us, straight from his illustrious overseas tour! His noble purpose? To celebrate the first glorious year of our own king’s coronation in the Kingdom of Sanctimonia. A joyous occasion, one might assume, but for our monarch, it’s less a celebration and more a pre-interrogation jitters.
Our king, a man whose brow is perpetually furrowed by worry, is in an unprecedented tizzy. His mind, usually a delightful labyrinth of sweetmeat cravings and traffic light removal schemes, is now a frantic calculator of Key Performance Indicators (KPIs) and Key Result Areas (KRAs). And oh, the horror! What is there to show? Crime, like a virulent weed, has grown unchecked, with offenses against women blooming at an alarming rate. Prices of household commodities, including our precious milk, have soared, making daily survival a heroic feat for the average Sanctimonian. How, he wonders, will he present these “achievements” to the Super King, who, rumor has it, carries a “super cane” capable of extracting unpleasant truths?
The Law Minister, a figure whose default state is now a perpetual sulk, finds himself in a most precarious position. When to offer support? When to discreetly hide behind a pillar? The line between sycophancy and self-preservation has become blurrier than a well-aged Mohula hangover. His deputies, meanwhile, are blissfully (or perhaps strategically) off in their own worlds, spouting absurd agricultural practices that involve convincing cows to produce flavored milk, and even more absurd tourism initiatives, as our once-pristine beaches have been entirely swallowed by the shacks of liquor barons.
Adding to the king’s woes, palace meetings have become a culinary disaster. No one is serving food! The five-star hotels, still smarting from the king’s unpaid sovereign debts (remember that milk money?), have flat-out refused to cater. Our monarch, accustomed to gobbling his breakfast from such esteemed establishments, now faces the indignity of empty platters. One can only imagine the Super King’s reaction when offered a glass of high-priced, locally sourced water instead of a lavish royal repast.
And the Titular King, bless his ritualistic heart, who was given the solemn assignment regarding the Holy Triad rituals? He has, alas, failed to meet expectations and is now hiding from the Super King, fearing the super cane more than a misplaced holy relic. His attempts to rein in the neo-sect seemingly resulted in a further proliferation of “whims and fancies.”
Meanwhile, our Urban and Revenue Ministers, caught in the eternal purgatory of un-encroached land, are now literally bending to their knees, furiously measuring every inch of the kingdom, hoping to present some semblance of order to the Super King. The Health Minister, however, has a far more pressing concern: a cholera epidemic. His explanation? “Polluted rain,” brought about by “climatic change,” which, astonishingly, the netizens were drinking. The blame, of course, falls on the heavens, not on any earthly mismanagement.
In this symphony of administrative chaos, financial woes, and looming divine judgment, only one figure remains utterly unfazed: the Royal Jester. He laughs heartily, a booming, unburdened sound that cuts through the collective sigh of the kingdom. Why the mirth? He’s about to be whisked away for his annual health check-up, a blissful escape from the unfolding disaster.
God save the kingdom, indeed, while the ultimate Headmaster arrives to take everyone, from the king to the lowliest tea vendor, into task. The Super King is coming, and Sanctimonia holds its breath, wondering if he brings salvation or simply a very stern lecture.
