P.O.D. Postmodernism on Demand

“Viruses are just energetic noise!” she proclaimed. “Clear your chakras, and you’ll become invisible to disease!”

At the height of her fame, Madura launched an anti-vaccine campaign that drew thousands of followers. She recorded voice memos for her disciples:

“Don’t let fear control you! Your third chakra is your most powerful shield. Inhale, exhale, feel the flow!”

She filmed inspirational videos standing against sunsets, assuring viewers, “My chakra pulses so strongly, it protects my neighbors!”

But irony, as always, had the last laugh. When Madura inevitably caught COVID, no amount of breathing exercises could save her. Rumors about her condition spread quickly, but she maintained her serene facade:

“This is just a cleansing,” she insisted in a wheezy Instagram video. “My third chakra is expelling all negativity.”

Her final post became an unintentional masterpiece of absurdity. Gaunt, pale, and visibly struggling to breathe, she smiled at the camera and whispered:

“If I’m sick, it’s because the Universe is teaching me a greater lesson. Don’t worry—my chakra is winning.”

Weeks later, while scrolling through his inbox, Tonny stumbled upon an email with the subject line:

"Don’t Miss Out! 80% Off Madura Shanti’s Farewell Ceremony!”

The email featured a photo of Madura, her trademark smile beaming brighter than ever. Beneath it, a bold caption read:

"Exclusive opportunity to bid farewell to the guru and guide her to new heights of spiritual success!"

Tonny stared at the screen, then yawned. “Still hustling from beyond the grave,” he muttered.

The ceremony was set to take place at a rare cemetery in the Himalayan foothills, just a short hike from Tonny’s current hideout.

“Well,” he thought, “at least nobody there will recognize me. Everyone will be too busy talking about her chakras.”

The cemetery was tucked into the mountains, its entrance marked by a narrow trail that wound through charred black trees. The air smelled of incense—or maybe someone’s poorly concealed outdoor curry.

As Tonny climbed the mossy path, he couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of it all. “Who knew finding a graveyard in India was harder than finding a decent latte in Midtown?” he thought, slipping slightly on the damp ground.

Ahead, the Himalayan peaks rose like powdered sugar sculptures against a watercolor sky. It was beautiful, sure, but Tonny couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just paid good money to attend a posthumous pyramid scheme.

“Even in death,” he muttered, “Madura still gets the last laugh.”

As Tonny Pinchchitte ascended the moss-covered trail, the view unfolded before him like an overpriced watercolor: jagged Himalayan peaks dusted with what looked like powdered sugar, the sky a cartoonish shade of blue so vibrant it seemed fake. The air carried a mix of woodsmoke and something oddly sweet—incense, perhaps, or maybe just someone burning last night’s failed curry.

In the distance, perched ominously near the cemetery, stood a sprawling colonial-style mansion. Its walls were blindingly white, the kind of white that makes your eyes ache just by looking at it. Ornate wooden balconies jutted out from the facade, and the faint scent of spices wafted through its open windows.

A massive billboard stood at the gates, garish and utterly out of place, its bold text screaming:

"Shambhala Is Closer Than You Think! Entry by Suggested Donation."

A group of men lounged on the front porch, dressed in flowing white robes that looked freshly laundered but deliberately wrinkled—enough to give them an air of authentic detachment. Their meticulously groomed beards practically radiated smugness, as if they weren’t just the keepers of Shambhala’s secrets, but also its majority shareholders.

Tonny’s local guide snorted and gestured toward them.

“See those guys? They’re the descendants of the original Shambhala guides. You know, the ones who promised American mystics a direct route to enlightenment.”

“And they’re still doing it?” Tonny asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“Of course. But now they’ve got tech.”

The guide nodded toward the mansion’s balcony, where a cluster of tourists in VR headsets swayed like zombies. Their hands reached for something invisible, their heads bobbing in time with imaginary footsteps.