Mornings on the outskirts of Delhi begin with the shrill peal of many a peacock’s call, the clink of teacups, and, in our house, the voice of CNN—It’s become a sort of morning hymn, the kind my mother insists on for “global awareness”. One doesn’t have to be listening; the noise finds you anyway, drifting through the curtains, settling like dust. And lately, the sound has had a familiar timbre: Donald J. Trump, larger than life, louder than reason, once again commanding the stage as if history were an encore written just for him!
The latest spectacle—a 100% tariff on Chinese imports—arrived, as most of his policies do, with the subtlety of a marching band in a library. From Halloween Pumpkins to Christmas Fairy Lights, the season of American consumer cheer may have to make do with domestic tinsel and recycled ghosts. I watched one correspondent trying to explain it: “It’s about protecting American workers,” she declared, straight-faced, as footage showed a warehouse full of plastic Santas and inflatable Reindeers stranded at customs.
My husband, buttering his toast with the gravitas of a judge, muttered, “Perhaps this year they’ll decorate with sincerity instead.” He has a way of making understatement sound like policy. Across the room, the kettle hissed—the only thing in our household still working at full capacity.
I sometimes wonder if Trump’s political theatre is less about governance and more about seasonal entertainment. After all, America’s in the thick of it—Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas—each holiday an opportunity for patriotic merchandising! But what happens when the baubles and batteries double in price?! When your Turkey costs as much as your mortgage?! It’s hard to “Make America Great Again” when even your Fairy Lights revolt, don’t you think?!
A friend of mine in California called the other evening. “You have no idea,” he sighed, “the shelves look as if they’ve been looted by Elves. You can’t get a plastic pumpkin without pawning your wallet to PayPal!”
The government shutdown looms like a badly wrapped present under the political tree. “Temporary,” they call it, but it’s as temporary as a relative overstaying the holidays. Salaries frozen, departments dimmed, paperwork piling up—all while the man in charge tweets about “American strength.” Somewhere in Washington, a bureaucrat probably sits by candlelight, stamping forms that won’t see daylight until Easter.
Watching from here—on the fringes of India’s capital—it’s both absurd and faintly tragic. You can’t help but admire the theatrical energy of it all… Other Republican Presidents—Nixon with his Paranoia, Reagan with his Hollywood Halo, Bush with his Cowboy Diplomacy—played their roles with a degree of restraint. Trump, however, has rewritten the script into a one-man pantomime. He is both villain and hero, Santa and Scrooge, hawk and peacock rolled into one...
And it’s right in your face, Trump doesn’t govern; he performs. Reagan offered warmth, Bush tact—even Nixon’s suspicion had a kind of grim logic. Trump offers showmanship. Where others whispered policy, he bellows headlines. Where others tended their political gardens, pruning quietly, he stomps through the flowerbeds, scattering petals and proclaiming the chaos “beautiful.”
He’s now, as stated, slapped a 100 per cent tariff on Chinese imports—a move so bold it borders on self-sabotage. Arm-Chair Economists announce it’s meant to protect American industries; Realists call it shooting yourself in the foot and demanding applause. From gadgets to toys, the price tags are poised to soar just as the holiday season begins. I imagine harried parents in Walmart aisles calculating which gift costs less than their electricity bill. “Merry Christmas, kids, Santa’s getting you a bag of different colour socks to match each track-pant!”
There’s an odd magnetism to Trump’s megalomania. It’s as if he knows America runs on spectacle. He’s the showrunner of a nation addicted to drama, and the audience, whether enraged or enthralled, cannot look away… Even those who claim to despise him keep tuning in, as if half-hoping he’ll mispronounce “tariff” or challenge the moon to a trade war! Meanwhile, the American public seems divided between those who see him as a saviour and those who wish he’d been left on the cutting-room floor of history.
I can’t help feeling that in the great American soap opera, Trump is the character who refuses to die. He gets shot in one episode, buried in the next, and reappears in the finalé holding a flag! You could almost envy his resilience—or at least his ratings. Still, there’s a grim undertone beneath the laughter; when the Commander-in-Chief—the man with the codes, the head of the world’s most powerful army—treats diplomacy like a dinner-table argument, can press a button and change the world before breakfast, leaving one wondering whether the rest of us are just diminutive extras in a reality show…
The tariffs may hit China, but the tremors are global: supply chains strangled, prices soaring, economies jolting like jilted horses. America has always prided itself on reinvention, on optimism bordering on delusion. Yet, one suspects that even the stars on the flag are blinking wearily now. Between the scandals, the shutdowns, and the shouting, it’s as though the superpower has developed a mild case of existential heartburn.
The morning CNN loop played a segment on rising sexual abuse cases and the protests across campuses, the anchor, trying her best to sound composed, moved from “national trauma” to “holiday shopping tips” in under thirty seconds. The juxtaposition was so grotesquely American it could have been scripted by Kafka with a marketing degree!
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” the significant-other remarked, reaching for another toast. He doesn’t mean it cynically, just with the resignation of a man who’s seen two seasons of the same drama. Perhaps that’s what makes Trump so curiously invincible—his ability to embody chaos without appearing to notice. Like a bull in a china shop convinced he’s redecorating. The metaphor feels almost too apt now that he’s literally taxing China’s wares.
But here’s the real question—and it’s not one America can sidestep forever. When you wall-off trade, insult allies, silence dissent, and politicise every pumpkin from Pennsylvania to Pasadena—what remains of the dream?! With empty shelves and dim lights, will patriotism fill the void, or will the ghosts of past presidents come rattling down the corridors, whispering, “We told you so?!”
From this side of the world, watching through the television’s flickering haze, the show is as mesmerising as it is maddening. One part farce, one part fable, entirely American in its refusal to blink. And yet, the question lingers like static in the air: If America keeps putting a hundred per cent tariff on everything it doesn’t understand—be it Chinese goods or common sense—how long before it runs out of itself?! And somewhere, faintly, under the din of slogans and sleigh bells, a question echoes—is this still governance, or just theatre with better lighting?!
