#Binge Reviewing my previous Reads #Indian Government and Politics
The Presidential Years: 2012–2017 is the final volume of Pranab Mukherjee’s memoir series, and unlike the earlier books, this one carries the weight of quiet authority.
In the previous volumes, he wrote as a participant, a strategist, and a minister negotiating the messy world of coalition politics and party intrigue. Here, however, he writes as the custodian of the Constitution, reflecting on his years in Rashtrapati Bhavan with the calm detachment of someone who had stepped away from the fray yet remained deeply attentive to the pulse of the nation.
Mukherjee’s prose continues to be steady and unembellished, but the very restraint adds gravitas. He walks the reader through five years that were politically crucial for India—the twilight of the UPA-II government, the transition to the Narendra Modi era, and the changing political landscape that followed.
What makes the narrative compelling is that it is not weighed down by sentimentality; instead, Mukherjee approaches each episode with a constitutionalist’s lens, reminding the reader of the delicate balance between the executive, the legislature, and the President’s own limited yet significant role.
The book contains moments of candour that stand out. Mukherjee does not shy away from noting the failings of the Congress in 2014, especially its inability to project effective leadership, though he does so without malice. At the same time, he records with fairness his professional interactions with Narendra Modi, reflecting his belief that the President’s duty is to rise above party politics and engage with the Prime Minister and the Cabinet with dignity and impartiality. His descriptions of state visits, ceremonial duties, and his effort to modernise Rashtrapati Bhavan might sound procedural in another writer’s hands, but with Mukherjee they carry the weight of history, for he saw them as part of the living fabric of Indian democracy.
There are also poignant reflections on what it meant for him personally to assume the role. Mukherjee, who had been so close to becoming Prime Minister at various points, now stood as the constitutional head of the Republic, witnessing power rather than wielding it. Instead of regret, he displays acceptance—a sense that this was the role destiny had carved out for him, and he embraced it fully, ensuring that the office of the President retained its dignity and relevance in an age of intense political polarisation.
This final memoir also works as a mirror to India itself in those years—a nation experiencing rapid political change, debates about identity and governance, and a shift in power equations. Mukherjee presents all of this without polemics, almost like a historian compiling his final notes. There is serenity in his approach, but also a quiet warning: democracy depends not on grand rhetoric but on institutions, conventions, and the careful adherence to constitutional propriety.
Reading The Presidential Years after the earlier volumes feels like completing a long journey with Mukherjee—from the stormy corridors of power to the calm halls of Rashtrapati Bhavan.
It is not a dramatic finale, but a dignified one, consistent with the man himself: reflective, balanced, and principled. If his earlier memoirs were about the struggles and strategies of politics, this one is about perspective, closure, and the statesman’s last word.