This story is not intended
to be a commentary on current events, inflation, or drone surveillance. If you
see a naked king, kindly bang your plates and move along.
Once upon a time, in the
glittering kingdom of New Bharat – a land of soaring ambitions and crumbling
realities – there ruled a King. He was a man of grand proclamations, his voice
booming across the airwaves like a monsoon thunderclap, promising a golden age
where every citizen would dine on silver plates and ride bullet trains to their
chai stalls. His palace, perched atop a hill in the capital of Dilli Nagar,
shimmered with LED lights and billboards proclaiming “New Bharat: Shining Bright!” – even as the power grid flickered
like a tired butterfly.
The King was obsessed with
appearances. His wardrobe was a sprawling maze of silks, satins, and sequins,
each outfit more ostentatious than the last. But lately, he’d grown bored of
mere fabric. “I need something
extraordinary,” he declared one day, stroking his waxed beard. “Something that proves New Bharat is the envy
of the world!” Enter two Gujarati tailors – no not the ones you were
thinking about. Enter Suresh and Ramesh – two smooth-talking conmen with
LinkedIn profiles boasting “Textile
Innovators” and “Visionary
Disruptors.” They bowed low, their grins revealing stains of 5-Star on
their teeth.
“Your Majesty,” Suresh purred, “we’ve
woven a robe so magnificent, so cutting-edge, that only the truly enlightened
can see it. It’s invisible to fools, skeptics, and those who don’t clap at your
speeches.” Ramesh nodded, adding, “It’s
made of pure aspiration – light as a startup pitch, strong as a WhatsApp
forward. Perfect for New Bharat’s rise!”
The King clapped his hands,
delighted. “Brilliant! I’ll wear it at
the Grand Progress Parade. Let the world see my greatness!” The tailors
pocketed a hefty advance – rumoured to be enough to buy a flat in Gurgaon – or
an island in Dubai – and set to work, pretending to stitch air with imaginary
needles. The court buzzed with excitement, though some whispered doubts behind
their chai cups. “Invisible robes?”
muttered a clerk. “Sounds like my last
increment.”
The day of the parade arrived,
a sweltering afternoon where the sun baked Dilli Nagar like a tandoori naan.
The streets thronged with citizens – auto drivers, IT workers, aunties with
shopping bags – all waving saffron flags for some reason. The King emerged from
his palace, strutting down the avenue in what he believed was the finest robe
ever crafted. In truth, he wore nothing but his royal undergarments – a faded
pair of baniyan and chaddi, the elastic sagging from years of pompous feasts.
His ministers, advisors, and PR
team trailed behind, clapping furiously. “What
a vision!” cried the Finance Vizier, wiping sweat from her brow as she
ignored the plummeting stock tickers on her phone. “Such elegance!” cooed the Culture Mantri, adjusting his saffron
shawl while sidestepping a heated argument about whose festival was louder. “A masterpiece!” cheered the Commerce
Secretary, pretending not to notice the shopkeepers grumbling about unsold
inventory and rising flour prices.
The crowd joined the chorus,
partly out of habit, partly because the king’s new surveillance drones hovered
overhead, their cameras glinting ominously. “So modern!” they shouted. “So
prosperous!” Never mind the potholes swallowing scooters, the vegetable
carts charging gold for onions, or the headlines about raided journalists and
tax notices to outspoken writers. New Bharat was shining, wasn’t it? The
billboards said so.
But not everyone was convinced.
At the edge of the parade, perched on a crumbling wall near a flyover under
construction since 2012, sat Humpu Pappu. Yes, that Humpu Pappu – an egg-shaped
fellow with a cracked grin and a penchant for mischief. He wasn’t a local; he’d
stumbled into politics like a philosophy student into a bodybuilding
competition – with good intentions, bad timing, and a backpack full of
inherited slogans. Now, he watched the king’s procession with a raised eyebrow.
Humpu squinted, rubbed his
shell, and squinted again. “Hang on a
tick,” he muttered, loud enough for the nearby paan-wallah to perk up. “That King’s got no clothes on! He’s
strutting about in his skivvies!” His voice, high and wobbly like a badly
tuned sitar, cut through the applause. A gasp rippled through the crowd,
followed by a nervous titter. The paan-wallah spat red juice and whispered, “He’s right, yaar, but shh – don’t say it!”
The King froze mid-strut, his
beard quivering. “Who dares?” he
bellowed, spinning toward the wall. His guards – burly men in airy khaki with
batons and aviators – zeroed in on Humpu. “That
egg!” the King roared. “He’s
spreading misinformation! Off with him!” Before Humpu could protest, the
guards yanked him off the wall. With a dramatic shove, they sent him tumbling
to the cracked pavement below, where he shattered into a dozen yolky pieces.
The crowd winced, then clapped – because clapping was safer than thinking.
But the King wasn’t done. He
saw an opportunity to turn disaster into spectacle. “Behold!” he cried, raising his arms (and revealing more of his
baniyan). “This insolent egg dared to
question my grandeur, but I am a merciful king! I shall mend him!” He
snapped his fingers, summoning all his horses and men – though in New Bharat,
this meant a ragtag crew of overworked constables, a few swayamsevaks on
scooters, and a retired cavalry horse who’d seen better days.
The repair effort was a circus.
The constables bickered over jurisdiction – “This is an ED case!” “No,
CBI!” – while the swayamsevaks chanted slogans about unity and glued
Humpu’s shell with fevicol. The horse, unimpressed, nibbled on a nearby poster
promising “5 Trillion Economy Soon!”
A TV crew arrived, beaming the fiasco live: “King’s Compassion Shines as Egg Gets VIP Treatment!” The ticker
scrolled with unrelated boasts – new highways, space missions, yoga records – while
the anchors debated whether Humpu was a foreign agent or just jealous.
Hours passed. The glue dried
unevenly, leaving Humpu a lumpy, off-kilter mess. “Good as new!” declared the king, though Humpu’s left eye now faced
backward. The crowd cheered again, less out of conviction and more because the
drones were still watching. “See?”
The King beamed, adjusting his non-existent robe. “New Bharat fixes all! No problem too big, no critic too loud!” He
marched on, leaving Humpu propped against the wall like a cautionary tale with
a bad haircut.
The tailors, Suresh and Ramesh,
had long vanished – rumor had it they’d opened a “luxury AC” startup in London. The ministers resumed their praise,
louder now to drown out the memory of Humpu’s words. “Such leadership!” “Such
resilience!” The citizens nodded along, clutching their overpriced tomatoes
and dodging tax notices, because what else could they do? The King was clothed
in glory, wasn’t he? The parade said so.
Yet, as night fell over Dilli
Nagar, a quiet unease lingered. The paan-wallah whispered to his wife, “That Humpu wasn’t wrong, you know.” A
student doodled a naked king on her notebook, then erased it quick. An auto
driver, stuck in traffic, muttered, “All
I want is someone else to say it too – that he’s got nothing on. Just so I know
I’m not mad.”
And there it was, the unfairy
truth of New Bharat: the king was bare, his splendor a sham woven from hype and
denial. The markets wobbled, the prices soared, the agencies prowled, and the
chants grew shriller, but nobody dared cry “Naked!”
again – not after Humpu. They clapped instead, hoping the noise would hide the
cracks, praying someone else would see what they saw, so they wouldn’t feel so
alone in the silence.
As for the King, he strutted
back to his palace, ordering a new invisible crown to match his robe. The constables
and swayamsevaks dispersed, the horse ate another poster, and Humpu – poor,
patched-up Humpu – sat on his wall, dreaming of a day when the kingdom might
laugh at itself, just once, and admit the obvious. But in New Bharat, that day
was as distant as a punctual metro or a cheap kilo of dal. And so, the parade
rolled on – glitzy, loud, and stark naked – while the people watched, and
waited, and wondered.
