I am writing this from the depths of despair — a depth so deep I had not realised its true extent until I found myself firmly nestled within it. Unlike those who swiftly repackage their tragedies into LinkedIn-ready narratives of grit and resilience, I have yet to extract an inspiring moral from this unfolding disaster. And so, rather than weaving a tale of professional fortitude for social-media clout, I choose instead to make sense of my fate in a national daily, hoping that the sheer absurdity of it all might resonate beyond my immediate circle.For years, the arrival of a new year has meant little more than a cyclical change in calendar dates, often accompanied by a lingering sense of stagnation. But 2025, for once, seemed different. The year began with an air of promise — an impending promotion, a newfound commitment to health, a cautious optimism that, despite everything, perhaps this would be the year things turned around. The promotion, while more a function of circumstance than my exceptional skills, still carried a sense of validation. Confident that the formal paperwork is due any moment in the first month of the year, I enthusiastically took on additional responsibilities.Then came January 20.Story continues below this adA date of little historical significance to the world at large but is now forever woven into my timeline. Staying true to its character, our office WhatsApp group was buzzing with unremarkable debates over a colleague’s actual birthday, punctuated by dry corporate humour that one feels obligated to acknowledge, particularly when a performance review is pending. Shattering the mundanity, our Chief of Party, dropped a LinkedIn post that felt like a missile disguised as a routine update. Attached was the text of the new executive order signed by Donald Trump, the recently elected, anointed and self-proclaimed King of the imperial superpower. The “Re-evaluating and Realigning the United States Foreign Aid” order dictated a 90-day stop to all US foreign development assistance, under the pretence of ensuring alignment with American interests and values.Panic coursed through the office. An American and an outspoken Trump critic, our Chief of Party dismissed the order as yet another ploy from the President to assert his power and sow fear. “This is nothing USAID hasn’t seen before,” she assured me. “This too shall pass.” But as she spoke, a sinking feeling settled in — one that only deepened as the days unfolded.I should clarify what I do and why this moment unravelled my world. I work for one of the many contractors of USAID, operating in India to assist in its developmental goals. Specifically, our office is part of USAID’s MECLA platform—Monitoring, Evaluating, and Learning for USAID/India’s activities. We are one of many USAID-funded initiatives in India. Only days prior, we had been reassured that our funding was secured for another year. And so, with naive confidence, we clung to the belief that this was merely a temporary bureaucratic hiccup.Story continues below this adAlso Read | C Raja Mohan writes: In Trump’s world, India and Europe need each otherReality struck in full force on January 25th, when an email arrived from the head office in the US instructing us to cease all work with USAID, immediately terminate our consultants, and refrain from contacting our USAID counterparts. We were to wait — either for a decision from USAID or for the 90-day review period to expire. My scepticism from Monday morphed into full-fledged panic by Saturday. Already reeling from a recent gallbladder removal, I now found myself spiralling into existential dread: What if I never returned to the office? What if I never saw the colleagues I tolerated — except for a precious few — ever again? Crying sessions were swiftly scheduled and dutifully held, featuring me in distress and my beloved coworkers attempting futile consolation.By Monday, the gravity of our situation was undeniable. An all-hands meeting was convened to dissect the implications of the executive order and determine a path forward. With a pragmatic detachment, we resolved to act in the best interests of our contracting agency, which, predictably, meant slashing operational costs. But what would “reducing unnecessary expenses” even entail?We found out soon enough.Did we truly need to fuel ourselves with unlimited caffeine throughout the day? Surely, we could abandon our beloved coffee machine and turn to local tea stalls or tapris as we call it in North India for our stimulant fix? Of course! The first victim of Trump’s decree, signed approximately 12,000 kilometres away, was our office coffee machine! Emboldened by this symbolic act of austerity, we took things a step further: Why bother coming to the office at all if we couldn’t save on rent? If our days were to be consumed by improving dust-collecting CVs, crafting desperate cover letters, and endorsing each other on LinkedIn, why not do so from the comfort of our homes?It wasn’t until I verbalised my frustration to a friend that the absurdity of it all truly crystallised.most read“This is totalitarianism,” I ranted. “One man signs a piece of paper, and suddenly, I have to forfeit my right to caffeine! And that’s the least of it — we were forced to fire our office boys without notice or severance. People whose monthly salaries amounted to a mere fraction of what our senior consultants made in a day.” This professional limbo was a jolting reminder of the transient nature of my employment and for thousands around the world. Would we be reinstated? Till when are we to hold out on relentless hope?And so, the anxieties escalated and the descent continued. Each morning, our WhatsApp group became a repository of fresh horrors, updates on the battles being waged across various affected organizations, and our collective, unspoken realisation: hope dwindling. We scour LinkedIn, hoping for a miracle before our savings run dry, trapped in the shadow of a decree that has reduced us from professionals to pawns in an authoritarian display of power.This is the modern face of totalitarianism — not the overt force of military coups or surveillance states, but the quiet, insidious power of bureaucratic indifference. A single stroke of a pen in Washington reverberates through corridors across the world, rendering people disposable with chilling efficiency. No bullets, no threats, no fanfare — just an executive order, and lives upended in an instant.The writer was associated with USAID