If I am alive today—and I say this with all due reverence—it is thanks to two extraordinary men. Not my parents, not my doctor, not the scientists, not the gods, but two towering figures of the 21st century: Mr. Narendra Modi and Mr. Donald J. Trump.
Let’s start with Mr. Modi. During the great COVID-19 apocalypse, when the world was flailing, ventilators were running on prayers, and WhatsApp was our only source of medical advice, I got vaccinated. Twice. On both occasions, I received not only a dose of hope but a printed blessing—his face on my vaccination certificate. Truly, nothing inspires immunological confidence like the prime minister’s headshot. I didn’t know whether the vaccine worked, but I knew Mr. Modi was watching. Through PDF.
I didn’t ask for the photograph, but like all good blessings, it arrived unsolicited. I sometimes wonder if the real vaccine was nationalism all along. In any case, I survived. So thank you, Mr. Modi—not just for the vaccine, but for making sure I remember who gave it to me. Every. Single. Time. I open my health records.
Now, onto the other savior in my story: Mr. Donald Trump, peacemaker extraordinaire. It was 2025. India and Pakistan were playing their usual game of “who blinks first with nukes.” Fighter jets zipped, ministers barked, and media anchors held their nightly war cosplay specials. The world teetered. And who came in like a spray-tanned Buddha of diplomacy? Trump.
Yes, the man who could barely pronounce “Pakistan” called for calm. And somehow, it worked. Maybe both countries were too confused to fight. Maybe they were stunned into peace by the sheer audacity of American intervention. Or maybe Trump just said, “You guys, stop. It’s gonna be tremendous. Peace. The best peace.” And for one surreal moment, peace happened.
So here I am—vaccinated, not vaporized.
Alive, thanks to two men who probably don’t even know I exist. One ruled with slogans, the other with tweets. One placed himself on my medical records, the other on global headlines like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Yet, through divine comedy or cosmic bureaucracy, I remain breathing.
To them, I offer my deepest gratitude—and a gentle request: please don’t try to save me again. I’m not sure my constitution can handle a third miracle.