To Hillary, With Love


To Hillary, With Love

Illustration: Akshita Monga

Dear Hillary Clinton,

What a stellar, graceful concession speech that was. I could barely tell that you’d lost the presidency to a buffoon, and not someone actually worthy of the hard campaign you drove. Can’t help but admit that the sight of Bill weeping behind you warmed my heart.

A lot of people think that it’s admirable that you ran, I just think it was about time. No offence to you dear, but we did this in the ’60s in a country where, until a few years prior, our pre-nups mandated women to jump into their husband’s funeral pyres and die. And we won. So I thought, from the largest democracy in the world to the fastest, I could offer you some commiseration.

Take it from me. Leading the country is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I mean, sure it’s a power trip like no other but that lasts for about five minutes. After that, the shit-flinging starts and it is relentless, especially for us girls. Think about everything Angela Merkel and your pal Julia Gillard have had to endure.

As a woman in this job, your qualifications don’t count for squat, so stop going on about your Ivy League pedigree. As an Oxasian (illustrious Asian graduates from the University of Oxford), I can assure you that nobody cares. Remember how your mother told you that it doesn’t matter if everyone calls you a dork in high school because you have the best grades and that you’ll be popular later? Yeah, no. You might have become President, but you would not have been popular. They’ve already called you names like “nasty woman” (which I kind of like, it has a nice memorable ring to it) but at least you’re better off than that poor Victoria Woodhull who ran for President for the first time and was termed “Mrs Satan”.

Because no matter who is on top, the pervert parade is still larger in numbers, if not in IQ points.

If you had shattered the glass ceiling that you referred to in your speech and made it to the top job, remember you would not have been allowed to fancy state dinners unless you had a smile tacked on to your face all the time. Even if you wore your sexiest pantsuit and let them see that you can own that Oompa-Loompa-escaped-after-years-of-slavery aesthetic. But not too sexy, ok? Because then they might model a sex doll after you as they did with Sarah “Soccer Mom” Palin, and you seem like a person who has enough regrets for a lifetime.

You’d have had to suck it up at your work parties, where they’d serve dishes labelled on parts of female anatomy. Your bestie in Australia, for instance, was on the menu at a Liberal Party fundraiser a couple of years ago, where “Julia Gillard quail with ‘small breasts, huge thighs and a big red box’” were served. You might have to hit the bar early. But until then, you could play a fun game of “spot-the-pervert” with your other ugly and “unfuckable” girlfriends and keep tabs on who ate the Hillary breasts and thighs appetisers. (You girls have so much fun these days. I could never call my cabinet ministers ugly and unfuckable, even though all of them were.) You will be able to amuse douche your way through all that.

Because no matter who is on top, the pervert parade is still larger in numbers, if not in IQ points. You wouldn’t have been able to pass a legislation they didn’t like without them accusing you of being on your period. (These troglodytes can’t understand that some things are urgent, though I’m not saying it’s an Emergency or anything.) As President, you might have said something cool like “Garibi Hatao”, and these mofos will come back with something truly idiotic like “Hillary Hatao” as if it’s supposed to be some sort of a sick burn. And you’d never have heard the end of Monica jokes. You’d have had to puff your cheeks out when someone friendless parked in front of a computer in a basement in Maine, started an internet meme about you sitting behind the same desk that Lewinsky sat under.

It’s alright, my dear. If I were around I’d have suggested you take a deep breath and a stiff drink because it’s a rough ride. But you’re a nutcracker, and if Trump lurking behind your back like a fat rhino in a nature documentary didn’t scare you, I doubt that much else will.

Think about all the stupid questions you won’t have to field now. They’d likely have asked why you don’t smile and you could have told them that you read Berlusconi’s statements about women and forgot how to feel feelings. On the morning news, they’d have discussed why you look so tired, and no one would have heard that you’re exhausted from bitchslapping ignorance in the face all the time. Your detractors would have been cold from all the draft coming in through the cracks in the glass ceiling. They would not have got the crooked joke, but you might still have had a small chuckle.

But you can rest easy now. The joke, after all, is on them.

Warms Regards,
Mrs Indira Gandhi