India in Jordan

Indian President Pranab Mukherjee was in Jordan this week. It was the first visit by an Indian head of state to the Hashemite Kingdom in 65 years. The warmth and grandeur, with which he was received, should ensure that he does not forget about this part of the world for such long periods again. 

In fact, to make his trip more memorable, the University of Jordan presented him with an honorary doctorate in political science. Even though he has more than five honorary doctorates already, this one should be special because of the subject it represents and the complexity of the political upheaval that is happening around us. 

Mukherjee started his political career roughly around the same time that I was born, which was 50 years ago. After having held several union ministerial portfolios for more than four decades, from industrial development, revenue and banking, defence, external affairs to finance, he was sworn in as the president of India on July 25, 2012. 

He is fondly referred to as “the little big man” in political circles because of his diminutive height and still answers to the nickname “Poltuda” in his native village of West Bengal. Watching him enter the elaborate banquet hall of the lavish hotel in Amman, where a reception was held in his honour, one can understand why. Literally dwarfed by the tall security aides flanking him on both sides, Mr President ambled in, as if he was taking a leisurely walk in the park. 

Even though I was standing near the entourage, I had to crane my neck in order to get a closer look at him. Spruced up in a smart Nehru jacket and dark trousers he looked far younger than his four score years. As he strolled unhurriedly past me, I had an insane urge to call out to him by his pet name. But before I could get my vocal cords to obey, he had walked away, and was out of hearing distance. 

The Jordanians gave him a rousing welcome and the Indian community joined in. The sight of our national flags fluttering together made me misty-eyed and I sang our national anthem with a lump in my throat. I was aghast at my unexpected patriotic sentimentality and wiped a tear surreptitiously, glad that nobody had noticed. 

Soon, our head of state was addressing the gathering. He spoke about the bilateral relations the two countries shared and underlined the several fields of cooperation. As the speech got into the details of the trade that was going to increase substantially, I was about to tune off. The litany of numbers was confusing. But then the president mentioned Abdoun and I sat up immediately. This was the area in Amman where I lived, my neck of the woods, so to speak. One street in Abdoun was to be named after Mahatma Gandhi, he declared. 

“The presidential delegation might arrive to name the lane in front of my house after the father of our nation! Wow!” said the voice in my head.

Next morning I was up bright and early. 

“Have you seen the small Indian paper flags I kept in this drawer?” I asked my husband. 

“Why?” he countered. 

“I want to wave them when Poltuda arrives to inaugurate our street,” I confessed. 

“You can always sing the national anthem for him,” my spouse said. 

“Uff”, I said, ignoring him. 

“And don’t cry this time,” he cautioned.