Friday, February 10, 2017
The Death of a Monarch
The old king lay dying. Away from the public eye. Alone in his vaulted bedchamber, unattended and uncared for.
At least that’s what the scullery maid told the milkman. Not that she had ever gone up to the royal chambers; or even laid eyes upon the royal residence anytime in her scullery maiding lifetime. Did it matter, though? That was just a bit of inconsequential detail, wasn’t it?
The milkman then mentioned it to the dairy farmer, who passed it on to the procurement manager of the global dairy brand, who presented his ground level insights to the regional brand manager…
By then the old king was gasping for his last breath. Coughing up bilge and brine water. His death rattle shaking the very foundations of his vaulted bedchamber, where he suffered alone. Unattended and uncared for. Not that the marketing maverick or the new age communications guru had ever laid eyes on the now-almost-dead king or his vaulted royal bedchamber (away from the public eye, unattended and you get the picture) ever in their consumerist wisdom and strategy spewing lives. But how did such an inconsequential bit of detail matter anyway?
The succession battle began in earnest. All the royal princesses and princes, half-breeds and zilch-breeds were paraded in public (fully clothed thankfully, saving grace that). Battle lines were drawn. The options were weighed by one trading guild or the other, before they decided to pool their collective strengths behind the right royal offspring (assumed by the character-in-a-crowd understudy). For there was the one that guaranteed instant mob attention; while another could ensure that at least a fourth of her original audience would come back for more. Then there were the usual new kids on the block rumoured to possess unforeseen powers over the proletariat. Breaking rules that no one was very sure had even existed. Pushing analytics into the abyss. (Unfortunate that, one would have to build blocks in the dark all over again, how beastly!).
The day of the Coronation of the Monarch finally arrived, and would have promptly left by the back door in the same breath—had the confusion on the centre stage been believed. Thankfully, no one believed it; and so there were as many Monarchs to be crowned as there were mantles, crowns, sceptres and orbs to be handed around. And then, right then, when all had been assembled to watch the most Beckettian of performances—the backdrop parted and the king walked in.
The long form is here to stay, irrespective of the Toms, Dickens and Harriets prancing down cybersphere in their progressive minimalism.
Content is still King, Queen, and the kingdom. Amen.
— Saon Bhattacharya
Labels: allegory, content is king, death, dying, long form content
