This is a satirical comedy in the style of the Shramanas. The scene is set in a dusty mango orchard near the shifting borders of five ancient kingdoms. A lone wandering monk—bald, barefoot, and mildly amused—sits under a banyan tree. A small crowd of villagers, merchants, junior ministers, and foreign scholars gathers as the monk begins to speak, his voice is soft but piercing.
Monk:
In the land of Subh-Asi-Yana, where the rivers remember empires better than men do, and where the sun rises each morning unsure of which capital it will warm first, I have wandered, listening. What I heard was not always spoken aloud, but truth has its own way of whispering—often through potholes, power cuts, and public speeches.
Let me begin with the tale of Jambalpur, the land of lotus lakes and spirited declarations. A realm where scrolls flutter in the wind, each bearing a proclamation older than yesterday but newer than memory. The rulers there, well-versed in the art of echo, often declare, “We are not merely the mother of democracies—we are its ancestral home and, occasionally, its strict guardian.” The people nod, as one does to a well-meaning uncle whose stories are long and whose patience is short.
In Jambalpur, truth is not buried—it is simply curated. It rests gently in the Ministry of Official Narratives, where it is updated seasonally, like festival calendars. When a farmer speaks of dry wells or a student mentions disappearing exams, their words are gently redirected, perhaps to departments better suited for gratitude.
The libraries remain full, though many now only hold the corrected versions of ancient truths. And statues—oh, the statues—they rise taller than the banyan trees, casting long shadows over hospitals still awaiting roofs. Yet the rulers smile, saying, “A people inspired need fewer beds.” And when the heat rose unbearably, it was not a crisis—it was a test, and the citizens passed by sweating patriotically.
But let us not be cynical: in Jambalpur, optimism is abundant. The trains may wait, the wires may spark, but the slogans always arrive on time. And though debate flourishes in tea shops and street corners, it often ends just before it begins—like a monsoon that rumbles but does not rain.
Still, the people smile. For in Jambalpur, silence is not suppression—it is a form of elevated listening. And who among us dares interrupt the wind when it blows from the right direction?
Now let us wander westward to Paktiland, where the generals wear civilian costumes every other Tuesday and the constitution is laminated in thick glass, mainly to protect it from edits. Here, democracy is observed with the careful affection of a taxidermist. Elections come and go, like comets—bright, predictable, and controlled by astrologers in uniform.
In Paktiland, memory is seasonal. One day, the poets are national treasures, the next day, they’re fugitives accused of importing dangerous metaphors. Ministers explain it well: “A free press is like a bird—it sings best when caged for its own safety.” And the bird, if it knows what’s good for it, chirps exclusively about national unity.
There is great resilience here. The wheat may fail, the currency may faint, but the missile flies strong and straight—because sovereignty, like a beard, must always be stroked, even when the stomach growls.
And when dissent rises, it is not crushed—it is simply guided into temporary retreats, where it can reflect on national values under fluorescent lighting. Those who return often emerge quieter, as though they had heard divine revelation in a windowless room.
But in Paktiland, too, the people laugh. Not always loudly, but wisely. For they know that every ceiling has ears, and sometimes, the floorboards do too.
Further east lies the serene realm of Chintalaya, where silence is sacred and speech is sacred-er. Here, discipline is the highest virtue, and the sky is always blue—by decree, if necessary.
The kingdom functions with the precision of a quartz clock built in a monastery. No one raises their voice, and certainly not their expectations. Here, the monks chant harmony, the officials measure it, and the people perform it—twice daily.
Citizens queue in straight lines to smile at cameras that do not blink. And when one among them forgets to smile, a helpful message arrives: “You have been temporarily inconvenienced for the greater convenience of all.”
Books are rare but well-behaved. The internet, too, is as calm as a still pond—its ripples monitored by unseen fish. And in every classroom, students learn the same lesson: that history is best understood by studying only those parts that have been certified for happiness.
Yet, in Chintalaya, progress is fast. Trains arrive before they’re needed, surveillance anticipates crimes before they’re imagined, and public applause begins before speeches end. Some call it control. Others call it enlightenment by scheduling.
And the people? They whisper their jokes beneath their breaths—so softly that even the bamboo doesn’t hear.
Finally, we arrive at Banglashantipur, the land of poets, protests, and power cuts. Here, everyone is either in government, out of government, about to be in government, or swearing never to be in government again until next Tuesday.
In Banglashantipur, slogans grow faster than rice. One week, the leader is a revolutionary, the next a relic, then a revolutionary again, reborn on television with better lighting. History is not written—it is crowdsourced, then disputed, then tear-gassed.
Parliament sessions often resemble open mic nights, where everyone speaks, no one listens, and the occasional chair flies in search of meaning. Still, democracy dances here, albeit sometimes in circles, occasionally barefoot over broken glass.
Corruption? It exists, but lovingly. Like an old auntie who steals sweets but tells the best bedtime stories. And development, when it arrives, is greeted like a distant cousin—welcome, suspicious, and always late.
But what Banglashantipur lacks in electricity, it makes up for in electricity of spirit. There, people still march. Still write. Still sing. Even if the microphones work only intermittently.
MONK (pauses and looks skyward):
So I wandered, and I listened. And in each land, I found truth—not the loud, shining truth of empires, but the quiet, cracked kind that grows between stones.
In Jambalpur, truth is curated.
In Paktiland, it is escorted.
In Chintalaya, it is simplified.
In Banglashantipur, it is shouted over, then sung again.
And still, the people endure. They joke. They vote. They vanish. They return.
They laugh when permitted, whisper when not, and in all four lands, they wait for the rain.
[And thus spoke the monk beneath the banyan tree. The wind carried his laughter across the borders, where some heard wisdom, and others mistook it for silence.]
Ashish Singh has a Ph.D. in political science from the NRU-HSE, Moscow, Russia. He has also previously studied at Oslo Metropolitan University, Norway; and Tiss, Mumbai.
