Trumpji is my favourite US president. I bond better with him than I bonded with Obamaji because both of us are Aryans, see? Already members of the Ministry of External Affairs (MEA) are teasing me and calling me Trumpji’s blue-eyed boy—it’s like a Ghar Wapsi for me!
Nobody in the world loves me as much as Trumpji does. I know, I know, people will say “Aarey what about Amit?” Well, what about him? Is he as rich as Trumpji? Is he as handsome as Trumpji? Is he president of the USA/world like Trumpji? So shut up, okay?
Trumpji said I reminded him of someone called Elvisji. I didn’t know who Elvisji was, but the world shook with laughter. Then the MEA told me he was a legendary rock star and showed me some YouTube videos of a fat man in glamorous shiny clothes singing—I so love his clothes! I immediately called up all my tailors in India, ordered them to create Elvisji-style clothes for me and courier them to my hotel in New York within two days or else Amit will do his thing.
Do not feel sorry for my tailors—hello, I work equally hard on my Elvisji impersonation. I made my team get a karaoke thingie for me and every night in the US I sang and shook my pelvis in front of my bathroom mirror, using my hand shower as a mike. The MEA caught me at it and advised me to be careful because I’m old enough to require hip replacement surgery. I then shook my pelvis even harder because surgery in America was not a bad idea: it would have delayed my return to that “shithole” country (as Trumpji calls it, and Trumpji is always right).
I got many calls from India congratulating me on the spectacular Howdy event. Credit goes to the MEA, it is the best event management company ever—no wonder several industrialists asked me if they could borrow my foreign minister to organise the weddings of their children.
There were only two dark spots during that event: one was when some dumb US senator praised Nehru (he didn’t get the MEA’s memo or what?), and the other was the protesters outside the venue. There were thousands, but my boys snatched cameras from international media persons who tried to cover the protests. I am happy to say that my tame Indian media contingent refused to even look at the protesters.
I also had a hush-hush meeting with Trumpji (saved on a secret classified server because Trumpji says I’m very special!). The MEA told me I had to buy stuff to make Trumpji happy so I did that, but to my surprise, Trumpji offered to give India aid. My god, he really adores me!
I assured him not to worry about the economy because whenever I need money for elections I get a bank or two to withhold money to all its customers—well, it’s demonetisation really, but I’m too scared to use that word anymore. Trumpji insisted I take the aid and then asked me in a hssst-pssst voice to give him dirt on all the Democrats I’ve ever met. I told him I will tell him everything I know for free!
Bleddy, I want my new best friend to win the twenteen-twenteen elections so badly! I did think of introducing him to Amit (his dirt-digging tactics and intimidation skills are the best in the world), but then I changed my mind. Amit is about the same size as Elvisji, what if Trumpji prefers him to me? I cannot let that happen!
The United Nations thing went off okay. I made a few boring speeches (what to do, the MEA said that I have to pretend to be a “sickular” liberal when I go abroad to fool people). For entertainment, I had begged Trumpji to take me for his UN meeting on Religious Freedom, but he refused even when I shook my pelvis and sang,
“Oh baby let me be, your loving’ teddy bear /
Put a chain around my neck, and lead me anywhere /
Oh let me be/
Your teddy bear.”
I am back in the shithole (moan), and so depressed because Kashmiris are now serenading me 24x7 with this Elvisji song:
“Oh please release me, let me go /
For I just don’t love you anymore.”