There are many who have misgivings about Donald Trump, his hair, his handshakes, his habit of speaking louder than the microphone, and his tweets that could give missile launches a run for their speed. But today, as I watched scenes of hostages returning to their homes, families breaking down in joy, and long-divided nations daring to embrace again, I found myself doing something I never thought I would; admiring Trump.

Because say what you want about him, the man brokered peace where others just posed for photographs and issued statements filled with more adjectives than action. The sight of those reunions reminded me that leadership is not about liking someone’s style, it’s about acknowledging when something good happens through them, even if you don’t like the person himself.

And as I watched the handshakes and hugs, I asked myself one uncomfortable question: why wasn’t our Prime Minister there?
He was invited, yes. But he didn’t attend. And in that absence, I sensed a silence, one that said more than a thousand speeches could.

Because we, in this country of Gandhi and Buddha, seem to have forgotten that peace is not a diplomatic posture; it’s a national identity we once proudly owned. We talk of Clean India, Corruption-Free India, Digital India, and even Developed India, but when it comes to Peaceful India, our voices trail off into awkward quiet.

We clean our streets before Diwali, but not our hearts before the next hateful post we forward. We polish our brass nameplates till they shine, but allow our consciences to rust. We build smart cities, but not kind citizens.

Today, compassion has become a casualty, dismissed as weakness, mocked as naivety, and buried under slogans that sound good on podiums but die in practice.

A few days ago, I experienced this first-hand. In my housing society group, I wrote about a blind man whose flat had been flooded and ruined because of negligence by a neighbour upstairs. I took photos, I shared the story, I appealed for help. Everyone saw the message. Blue ticks lit up like Diwali lamps. But only one man, just one, visited the poor fellow’s flat, saw his misery, and promised to act.

That, my dear reader, is what peace looks like. Not in televised treaties or historic signings, but in ordinary acts of empathy.

Peace begins not at summits in Washington or Jerusalem, but in small rooms where we decide to care.

It’s easy to applaud peace when CNN or BBC beams it into our living rooms. It’s far harder to practise it when it means standing beside someone who cannot fight for himself. We’ve become spectators of compassion, not participants. We watch suffering as entertainment, then scroll to the next episode in our endless feed of indifference.

And that’s why Trump’s peace moment; loud, brash, imperfect, struck me so deeply. Because it showed that even the most unlikely person can choose reconciliation over retaliation. The world cheered. But we, the land that once preached Ahimsa, stayed home.

Two years ago, I wrote a play titled The Blessed and the Chosen, which, I am humbled to say, has been bought in Australia. It’s about the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, told through the story of a Jewish girl who grows up in India and later becomes the President of the United States. Her leadership is not forged in political theory or military strategy, but in the compassion she absorbs as a child in India, a compassion she carries into the White House.

But as I look around my own country now, I ask myself with sadness — are we still that people?

Are we still the India that inspired Martin Luther King Jr. to speak of love? The India that moved Mandela to dream of reconciliation? Or have we become a land where shouting wins over listening, and might is mistaken for right?

Our absence at that peace gathering was symbolic. It said, “Peace is someone else’s job.” And yet, peace can never be outsourced.

I hope I’m wrong. I hope there were logistical reasons, scheduling conflicts, or diplomatic nuances I’m unaware of. But deep down, I worry that our absence mirrors a growing emptiness within, a discomfort with compassion.

We celebrate when our missiles rise into the sky but stay silent when our humanity sinks.

And here’s the irony: the same nation that gifted the world the word Ahimsa now measures strength in decibels of anger. The same land that once bowed before God in prayer for peace now bows before power.

Peace, my friend, is not Trump’s achievement alone, nor is it America’s moment. It’s a reminder of what we all are capable of if we set aside ego for empathy. It’s the quiet triumph of the human spirit over the noise of hatred.

Let’s face it, the world doesn’t need more speeches. It needs examples.

And examples don’t begin with governments or treaties. They begin with you and me. With a neighbour who helps another. With a society that protects its weakest. With a nation that believes kindness is not weakness but wisdom.

As those hostages walked free, I saw more than political victory. I saw families reunited, tears wiped, and hope rekindled. That, I thought, is what the world should look like, not divided by borders or beliefs, but united by compassion.

If Trump, for all his flaws, could broker a fragile peace, surely we — heirs to the greatest apostles of peace — can rediscover the compassion that once defined us.

Because peace is not a photograph, it’s a posture of the heart.

And if we, the land of Gandhi, Buddha, and Christ-followers, cannot stand for peace, then we have forgotten the one message our history shouted to the world: that love is stronger than hate, and gentleness mightier than war.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop polishing our slogans and start cleaning our hearts…!

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