Sanctimonia Binocs, Bhubaneswar, 20 January 2026
Hark, ye shivering, frozen, and financially illiterate citizens of Sanctimonia!
While the rest of the world’s elite have flocked to the snowy peaks of Davos to discuss the global economy over hot cocoa and high-stakes deals, our King remains grounded in the foggy flats of Sanctimonia. He is, to put it mildly, sulking.
The King, a man whose jealousy is as vast as his confusion, is deeply perturbed that his contemporaries are rubbing shoulders with economic giants while he is left here, staring at the peeling paint of his palace. In a sudden flash of inspiration—or perhaps desperation—he has decided that if he cannot go to the economy, the economy must come to him.
The Royal Remedial Classes
He has hired a University Lecturer to conduct private classes on “How Money Works.” The King hopes that by absorbing the wisdom of supply and demand, his “grey cells” might finally grasp why the kingdom’s coffers are always empty.
But alas! The grapevine, that cruel mistress of truth, whispers a far more embarrassing reality. It seems the King’s grasp of the English language is as shaky as the kingdom’s GDP. Thus, the lecture hall has become a comedy of errors: before he can understand “fiscal deficit,” he must first master “basic grammar.” He now requires a tutor for his tutor—a remedial education for a ruler who aspires to be a global player but cannot yet spell “global.”
The Phantom Land Reforms
Meanwhile, the Land Revenue Minister has taken to the stage to spew utter nonsensical statements regarding “Land Reforms.” He speaks with the confidence of a man who has never seen a map.
His primary target? The vast, sprawling, and entirely unrecorded lands of the Holy Triad. He claims he will reform them, despite the inconvenient fact that no records exist. He is trying to audit the divine, attempting to tax the very ground the gods walk on, without a single ledger to guide him.
The Law Minister’s Paranoid Hunt
This administrative chaos has triggered the olfactory senses of our ever-paranoid Law Minister. He does not smell incompetence; he smells a conspiracy.
Convinced that the lack of records is a plot to undermine the regime, he is no longer looking at files; he is looking over his shoulder. He prowls the corridors, eyes darting wildly, searching for Casca and Cassius, convinced that these spectral conspirators are hiding behind the curtains, waiting to plunge a dagger into the heart of his (non-existent) legacy. He suspects even the shadows are plotting a coup.
The Jester’s Civil War
But let us turn our eyes to the Jester, the former King who now leads the opposition with all the grace of a bull in a china shop.
Instead of capitalizing on the King’s folly, the Jester is busy dismantling his own house. He has begun a “great purge,” throwing out other jesters from his community whom he accuses of “anti-party activities.”
It seems that in the Jester’s party, being funny – or perhaps, being competent – is now a treasonous offense. The result is a rebel wave within his own ranks, turning the opposition into a circus where the clowns are fighting each other rather than the ringmaster.
The Netizen’s Cold Reality
And what of you, the poor netizens? You are a worried, trembling lot.
The harsh winter has set in, biting through your thin shawls, but the cold is the least of your worries. The prices of commodities are soaring higher than the King’s imaginary helicopter.
Milk, that basic elixir of life, has become “liquid gold.” The poor man’s tea, the one solace in a freezing winter, is now unaffordable. You stand at the tea stalls, pockets empty, watching the steam rise like your vanishing hopes.
Caught between a King learning his ABCs, a Minister hunting ghosts, and a Jester fighting his own shadow, you have only one recourse left.
You look up to the grey, winter sky and pray to the Holy Triad. Your mantra is no longer political; it is a desperate cry for survival:
“Only God can help the kingdom survive the winter, the tuition fees, and the price of milk.”
