SATIRE | They say parables are harmless little stories, but in today’s climate even a bedtime fable can get you trolled, misquoted, or reported faster than you can say “once upon a time.”
It could also be misinterpreted as insulting their religious brethren because once the white Zucchetto-styled caps sit atop their heads, and their robes flow, the intensity increases.
So, let’s dress this one up in satire, with no camels, no deserts, and no dunes to avoid photographs and media coverage of police reports.
On a frosty night, the leader tucked himself in, proud of his modest canvas castle. Then came the creature of convenience, nose-first at the flap, pleading for warmth like a freeloading guest at a “kenduri kahwin” (wedding feast).
“Just a corner, just a cushion,” it whimpered, shivering like a spin doctor caught without a script.
The leader, more desperate than generous, caved in. The nose first, then the head, then the whole lumbering body. Soon the creature was sprawled across the bedding, snoring like a “cawangan” (branch) chairperson after a “makan besar” (banquet).
The leader? He was outside, teeth chattering, muttering: “Funny thing about generosity - it often ends with the giver freezing while the taker snores.”
And the moral? In politics, as in tents, beware of noses at the flap. They rarely stop at the nose. His aides warned him, only to be ostracised and declared as outcasts because the newfound affinity, the leaders thought, was genuine.
Marriage of convenience
But the satire doesn’t end there. The so-called “union” was not unity at all - it was a marriage of convenience, officiated by opportunism and catered by chaos.
On the other side, deputies were anointed, rebellions rehearsed, and race cards shuffled like a magician’s deck. Even those once silenced by the Sword of Damocles - dangling over hawala remittances, offshore property purchases, bribes and money laundering - suddenly found their voices, singing hymns of defiance in off-key harmony.
Another from Kadaram (the ancient name for the area near the northern border) has forgotten the hands that tapped rubber, mined tin, built the road and railway systems, and has touched on ancestry.
His unsavoury remarks have given more headaches for the leader, but golden silence has been the riposte, afraid of annoying his kind.
Meanwhile, the so-called liberal, once touted as the pragmatic heir, returned to the fold, kissing the hands of his former persecutor like a prodigal son at a family reunion sponsored by irony.
Thirty months in Siberian hibernation later, the ethos and values thawed - not into spring, but into something more convenient: a costume change to match the troupe’s aspirations - use the race and religion cards.
The firebrand from the south became a fire-starter, the resident ventriloquist throwing his voice, turning molehills into mountains, sandwiches into scandals, and socks into religious weapons.
Under normal circumstances, the slammer would have been the perfect abode for such characters, but instead they were catapulted back into the circus ring.
No thanks to the leader, who watched in silence, a sign that he was either weak or that such beings are untouchable.
Taste of own medicine?
So here we are, watching the circus unfold: the leader outside the tent, the creature inside, the trolls heckling from the wings, and the audience wondering whether the next act will feature juggling, fire-eating, or another round of “Guess who’s the leader today.”
But isn’t the leader getting a taste of his own medicine? Was it he who once thundered “I have the numbers!” now finds himself outside the tent, counting “lembu” (cows) instead of lawmakers?
Eight years ago, he claimed crossovers would topple governments; two years later, he promised a “formidable convincing majority” - not a small one, mind you, but a majority so strong it could probably bench-press a constitution.
Yet nothing materialised. No build-up, no momentum, no delivery. Just a puff of smoke and a disappearing act worthy of a magician’s matinee.
Meanwhile, the detractors took notes. They learned that politics is less about shouting “I have the numbers” and more about quietly arranging the chairs, rehearsing the script, and making sure the creature of convenience gets the best cushion. Plan, execute, and take over - that’s the new buzzword.
So here we are: the leader outside, the creature inside, the trolls filing reports, and the audience waiting for the next act.
Regrets? Too late. The tent flap has closed, the circus has begun, and the only question left is not “Who has the numbers?” but “Who’s keeping score?” - Mkini
R NADESWARAN says this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Comments: citizen.nades22@gmail.com
The views expressed here are those of the author/contributor and do not necessarily represent the views of MMKtT.
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