On a day in 1973, a young Bengali lawmaker energetically expanded on his ideas relating to the budget that had recently been presented in the Jatiyo Sangsad by Finance Minister Tajuddin Ahmad. A few minutes later, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman strode into the chamber and took his seat on the front row of the Treasury Bench. The young lawmaker, further energized by the arrival of the Father of the Nation, swiftly switched from the budget to singing paeans to Bangabandhu. The Prime Minister turned back to look at him, observed him for a couple of minutes and eventually told him, ebar thaam (stop it now). We in the Visitors' Gallery were happy that an uncalled for attempt at sycophancy had quickly been shot down by Bangabandhu.

But no such move was made at Ganobhavan a few days ago when Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina stepped into her official residence  after a tour of the United States and Britain. Having been welcomed back home by tens of thousands of ruling Awami League leaders and workers all the way from the airport to Ganobhavan, Sheikh Hasina was greeted by a prominent Tagore artiste with a rendition of a song from the Bard. And alongside the Prime Minister and the artiste stood a veteran artist and a reputed writer. The song over, it was the turn of others, especially the nation's cricketers, to offer an effusive welcome to the head of government. On Monday, it was for the two mayors of Dhaka to organize a civic reception where the objective was a celebration of the Prime Minister's achievements in New York.

Tales of sycophancy are not a staple with only Bangladesh. Only weeks ago, former British foreign secretary Douglas Hurd came forth with what was truly a rather flattering portrait of Queen Elizabeth II. The reigning monarch, if Hurd is to be taken seriously, does not suffer from any of the flaws and imperfections lesser mortals are generally privy to. There is great wisdom in the Queen, as the once influential politician suggests, intelligence that is practically unmatched. Predictably, the book came in for some harsh comments in British newspapers, among which was the opinion that its contents were oleaginous to say the least. If you recall, sycophancy was a defining feature of life in Ayub Khan's Pakistan. Friends Not Masters, the bizarre autobiography allegedly ghostwritten for Pakistan's first military ruler, was praised to the skies by the acolytes of the president. At one point, the sycophants around Ayub Khan suggested that the book be made part of the syllabi at colleges throughout the country. And, presto! It was done.

In Bangladesh, sycophancy in the political arena climbed ridiculous heights when the country's air force invited Tareq Zia, son of General and Begum Zia and at that point a joint secretary general of the Bangladesh Nationalist Party, as a special guest at one of its programmes. He had no niche in the government, did not hold any political or administrative position and yet he was there savouring the joys of being a guest of a significant military institution of the state. And he was there because his mother was prime minister, because someone in the air force desperately needed to please him. It was, in some ways, a reminder of the sycophancy which made power go to Sanjay Gandhi's head in India. The younger child of Indira Gandhi possessed no political authority, did not hold elective office. But that did not prevent him, thanks to his flunkeys, from wielding inordinate and unnatural authority in the state. He instructed ministers on what to do; he decreed the sort of censorship India's newspapers were to follow during the entire length the Emergency between 1975 and 1977.

Sycophants often tend to lose track of themselves. They flatter one individual, and then move on to doing the same to another when circumstances change. When the young Zulfikar Ali Bhutto was given a ministerial berth in the central cabinet by Pakistan's President Iskandar Mirza soon after martial law was imposed on the country on 7 October 1958, he wrote ingratiatingly to the president, making it clear that Pakistanis would remember Mirza's leadership with gratitude, that the president would go down in history as a greater leader than even Mohammad Ali Jinnah, Pakistan's founder. A mere twenty days later, Iskandar Mirza was packed off into exile by General Ayub Khan and Bhutto with alacrity switched his instincts for flattery to the strongman. In early 1963, a very pleased President Ayub Khan made Bhutto secretary general of his Convention Muslim League. Bhutto then suggested that Ayub be made president of Pakistan for life. It is quite another matter that Ayub and Bhutto subsequently fell out. But what has survived is the memory of Bhutto in the garb of sycophancy.

Dev Kanth Barua, president of India's ruling Congress in the mid-1970s, became a laughing stock all over the country when he came forth with his mantra, 'India is Indira and Indira is India'. Quite a good number of eyebrows were raised in early 1970s Bangladesh when the more effusive among Bangabandhu's young followers emerged with a new slogan, ek neta ek desh, Bangabandhu Bangladesh (One Leader One Country, Bangabandhu Bangladesh). The slogan did not exactly resonate with the democratic aspirations of a nation which had gone to war for political liberty, but there it was. It left the more intellectually inclined supporters of the ruling Awami League a trifle disturbed. In the times of Hussein Muhammad Ershad, sycophancy acquired newer levels. The good journalist Anwar Zahid, in one of those moments when people take the wrong bend around the river, linked up with the military ruler to become his minister for information. At one point, he became so enamoured of his president that he went public with the statement that if Ershad wanted him to sweep the streets, he would do so. With one blow, the man's self-esteem and the reputation he had built all his adult life were struck down.

Flatterers in the world of politics have often called for the strengthening of leaders' hands, the better for the rulers to develop a cult of personality around them. Abdul Monem Khan, governor of East Pakistan under Ayub Khan, was careful about addressing his benefactor as amar sodor (my president). The communist dynasty in North Korea has a seemingly built-in system of sycophancy, so much so that even upstarts like the very young Kim Jong Un can feel reassured about a safe future for themselves. Mao Zedong was flattered as the Great Helmsman at a time when his Cultural Revolution was laying much of China's intellectual landscape waste between the mid 1960s and mid 1970s. General Ziaur Rahman fought no holy wars but certainly presided over the executions of hundreds of military officers and soldiers. That reality notwithstanding, his followers conferred on him, after his assassination, the honorific Shaheed (martyr).  General Ershad, wishing to be remembered in history as a friend of the nation's peasant class — and he has never been a socialist — had his acolytes term him as Pollibondhu.

Pakistanis, for very logical reasons, have revered Mohammad Ali Jinnah as Quaid-e-Azam. Bengalis have had their Deshbandhu, Netaji, Sher-e-Bangla and Bangabandhu. But when Liaquat Ali Khan was celebrated as Quaid-e-Millat and Zulfikar Ali Bhutto had his sycophants address him as Quaid-e-Awam, it was not hard to gauge their vaulting, albeit unnatural ambitions.

Sycophancy? It is an ancient art raised to near perfection in modern politics. Think of the many ways in which Congress politicians in India go on fawning over the non-achievers' mother-son team going by the names of Sonia and Rahul Gandhi.

Syed Badrul Ahsan is a bdnews24.com columnist.