<p>Donald Trump, who is only the second president in American history to serve two non-consecutive terms, has made a remarkable comeback. I am unlikely to ever meet him, but I have seen two of his predecessors. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Growing up in New Delhi, I lived near Rajpath (now Kartavya Path), the avenue that wends its way from Rashtrapathi Bhavan through India Gate and beyond. Distinguished foreign visitors staying with India's head of state would travel in a majestic motorcade to his residence, and a siren would signal the proximity of the procession. The moment it sounded, my family and neighbours would cut across a field to stand by the road and cheer the cavalcade.</p>.<p class="bodytext">When the 34th President of the United States arrived in New Delhi in December 1959, my brother was not yet on the scene. My mother, who was expecting that baby in three months, did not choose to remain at home. She was as keen as my father to catch a glimpse of ‘Eisenhower’.</p>.<p class="bodytext">I heard the name as icing and optimistically imagined that, since rushing to Rajpath was tiring, I would be rewarded for my run. After Dwight Eisenhower (of whom I have not the slightest recollection) had departed, I requested a round white cake with pink frosting. My parents looked at me sadly, as though concerned for my mental well-being. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Actually, they were to blame. The previous year, we were living in the UK, and they kept talking about ‘Shakespeare', which I assumed was a delicious milkshake. Hungry and thirsty after interminable sightseeing, I hoped we would stop for refreshments. Unfortunately, my parents could not get enough of Stratford-upon-Avon, a town that struck me as dull and commonplace. If that seems sacrilegious (as it does to me now), I should add that I was four years old.</p>.<p class="bodytext">I was an easily impressed teenager when Richard Nixon came calling in 1969. Of course, we were at the parade. My brother Suresh, friend Pinky, and I waved wildly. To our delight, the president returned our enthusiastic greetings with equal exuberance. Pinky was convinced that he had singled her out for a special salutation. The next morning, she went to see him off at Palam Airport and came back in a state of euphoria. “Kiss the hand that shook Nixon’s,” she said, holding it out and declaring that she would never wash it. I wonder if, a few years later, she changed her mind after Watergate!</p>
<p>Donald Trump, who is only the second president in American history to serve two non-consecutive terms, has made a remarkable comeback. I am unlikely to ever meet him, but I have seen two of his predecessors. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Growing up in New Delhi, I lived near Rajpath (now Kartavya Path), the avenue that wends its way from Rashtrapathi Bhavan through India Gate and beyond. Distinguished foreign visitors staying with India's head of state would travel in a majestic motorcade to his residence, and a siren would signal the proximity of the procession. The moment it sounded, my family and neighbours would cut across a field to stand by the road and cheer the cavalcade.</p>.<p class="bodytext">When the 34th President of the United States arrived in New Delhi in December 1959, my brother was not yet on the scene. My mother, who was expecting that baby in three months, did not choose to remain at home. She was as keen as my father to catch a glimpse of ‘Eisenhower’.</p>.<p class="bodytext">I heard the name as icing and optimistically imagined that, since rushing to Rajpath was tiring, I would be rewarded for my run. After Dwight Eisenhower (of whom I have not the slightest recollection) had departed, I requested a round white cake with pink frosting. My parents looked at me sadly, as though concerned for my mental well-being. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Actually, they were to blame. The previous year, we were living in the UK, and they kept talking about ‘Shakespeare', which I assumed was a delicious milkshake. Hungry and thirsty after interminable sightseeing, I hoped we would stop for refreshments. Unfortunately, my parents could not get enough of Stratford-upon-Avon, a town that struck me as dull and commonplace. If that seems sacrilegious (as it does to me now), I should add that I was four years old.</p>.<p class="bodytext">I was an easily impressed teenager when Richard Nixon came calling in 1969. Of course, we were at the parade. My brother Suresh, friend Pinky, and I waved wildly. To our delight, the president returned our enthusiastic greetings with equal exuberance. Pinky was convinced that he had singled her out for a special salutation. The next morning, she went to see him off at Palam Airport and came back in a state of euphoria. “Kiss the hand that shook Nixon’s,” she said, holding it out and declaring that she would never wash it. I wonder if, a few years later, she changed her mind after Watergate!</p>
