Somewhere in Shanghai, the tall Chinaman looked at the other Chinaman and chuckled, “I can see someone running toward us.”
“Who?” asked the second Chinaman, lifting his teacup with casual indifference.
“The man from the cow belt. Wears kurtas that hug the wind and speaks in three-syllable slogans.”
“But why is he coming here? Didn’t we just… kill twenty of his soldiers at the border?”
“Yes. And armed his neighbor with high-tech bows and arrows. But apparently, his ‘friend’ in the West just slapped tariffs on his exports, so now he’s running Eastward.”
“Ahh,” said the second Chinaman, nodding like a wise panda. “The friend who hugged him fourteen times, whispered sweet nothings into his ear, and called him a true leader?”
“The same. The friend who now says You’re flooding my market, bro, and wants to punish him for economic aggression.”
“Poor fellow,” said the first Chinaman, dabbing a tear with his silk sleeve. “First betrayed by a bear hug, now hoping to find comfort in a death grip?”
They watched as the runner drew closer. His chest heaved, not from exertion, but from pride refusing to die. He slowed down before the gates of the Forbidden Compound.
“Namaste,” he said, folding hands and bowing, while peeking upward to see if the cameras had caught the gesture.
The Chinamen leaned over their bamboo railing, smiling like cats who’d seen the mice pack their bags and come marching in.
“Welcome, old friend,” they said in unison, rehearsed from the last time this happened.
“I come bearing partnership!” said the runner, beaming.
“We come bearing memory!” said the Chinamen, equally bright.
“Let us forget the past,” pleaded the runner.
“We never do,” said the elder Chinaman with a polite bow.
“But together, we can show the world unity—against the West!”
“Indeed,” said the younger Chinaman. “First, sign here, here, and here. And oh yes, give us access to your ports, your telecom, and your voters' WhatsApp groups.”
The runner hesitated.
“But… sovereignty?”
The Chinamen laughed so hard that a dumpling fell from one’s mouth.
“We respected your sovereignty when we redrew your maps?”
“Or when we built roads through your backyard?”
“Come, come,” they said, placing arms around the runner, “We know your friend has betrayed you. He used you for photo ops, for press conferences, and to balance China. Now he’s using tariffs to tell you you’re dispensable.”
The runner looked down.
“Don’t worry,” said the elder Chinaman. “We’ll pretend to hold your hand. Then—just like the 1960s—we’ll let go. At the top of the cliff.”
“But why would you do that?” asked the runner.
The Chinamen smiled, “Because your own people will cheer as you fall.”
And as the runner entered the palace gates, the younger Chinaman whispered, “Some people are so desperate for friendship, they’ll mistake a wolf’s smile for a brother’s hug.”
In the distance, the west chuckled. And somewhere, a tricolour wept in silence…!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
