A statement by Lalu Prasad Yadav has recently resurfaced online and spread rapidly across social media. The former Bihar chief minister and ex-Union railway minister is one of the most prominent and debated political figures in the Indian subcontinent. The statement was made during a speech in the Indian Lok Sabha at a time when Manmohan Singh was prime minister under the Congress-led government, though many believed that real authority rested behind the scenes with Sonia Gandhi.
The manner in which Mr Lalu presented his speech in Parliament to expose the rise of a new class of flatterers centred around Sonia Gandhi marked a new milestone in the critique of modern democracy in India.
Lalu said, “Madamji, please! Beware of the TTMP, otherwise they will ruin you.” On hearing the term “TTMP” from Lalu’s mouth, the entire Parliament was initially stunned. Many thought TTMP might be a new terrorist organisation from Pakistan.
Sonia Gandhi herself looked at Lalu in alarm. Lalu then explained that TTMP stood for Tel Torke Malish Party—a group whose sole job was to run around after her with bottles of oil to flatter her. At this, the whole Parliament burst into laughter, and Sonia Gandhi also laughed heartily.
Lalu went on to say, “I too have many TTMPs around me, but because I remain alert, they cannot cause any damage. But the level of sycophancy surrounding you has crossed all historical limits.”
I will discuss how, in Bangladesh’s politics from independence to the present day, the influence of the so-called tel malish party has grown at a geometric rate and how it has strangled all political possibilities. But before that, I would like to recount two historical incidents from the ancient world, both from roughly the same period.
One took place in the royal court of Emperor Harshavardhana of India, and the other in the court of the Abbasid Caliph Al-Mansur. The incident involving Harshavardhana is described in Jawaharlal Nehru’s Glimpses of World History, while the account of Caliph Mansur is narrated by Imam Ghazali in his world-famous book Ihya Ulumuddin.
According to Nehru, Emperor Harshavardhana one day summoned his court poet Banabhatta to the royal court. Banabhatta was among the most renowned poets of all time, counted alongside greats such as Kalidasa, Imru’ al-Qais, Sheikh Sa’di, Omar Khayyam, Ferdowsi, Homer and the sage Ved Vyasa. While Banabhatta earned lasting fame as the author of Harshacharita, he was also notorious for his dissolute character.
At the time I am referring to, scholars, intellectuals and philosophers were often held in higher regard than kings, and poets and travellers enjoyed the greatest admiration in society and the state. Just as people today idolise political and film superstars, ancient societies showed even greater adulation towards poets. As a result, even after becoming king, many aspired to be poets. From that impulse, Emperor Harshavardhana would occasionally write a few verses and show them to Banabhatta, attempting to display his poetic talent—much like Bangladesh’s former autocrat, the self-styled poet Hussain Muhammad Ershad.
Just as Bengali poets resisted Ershad’s attempts to be recognised as a poet, and poet Mohammad Rafiq mocked his literary ambitions in verse, ancient north India also witnessed a wave of ridicule directed at Emperor Harshavardhana. As established poets such as Abul Fazal and Fazl Shahabuddin once came forward to “rescue” Ershad by writing quality poems in his name, Banabhatta similarly stepped in to protect Emperor Harsha. But a serious problem arose.
Harsha’s era was not like Ershad’s. Nor were Harsha’s poets of the same calibre as Ershad’s. Moreover, Ershad was well aware of the misdeeds of poets and tacitly encouraged them, whereas Emperor Harsha was among the greatest rulers of his age. For Banabhatta to write poems in Harsha’s name and circulate them was incompatible with the good governance, justice and learning of Harsha’s reign. Even after death, such an act would have been unthinkable for Harsha, and it was beyond imagination that Banabhatta would dare to attribute his own poems to the emperor without permission.
Under these circumstances, Banabhatta secretly wrote fine poems and, under cover of night, posted them in major cities and ports across the empire under the claim that they were written by the emperor. This caused a sensation across north India. Poets revolted and challenged the emperor to demonstrate his poetic talent publicly in court. When the news reached Harsha, he found himself in grave difficulty. He admitted that the poems were not his and that he did not know who was responsible. The rebellious poets demanded a state investigation. Through his intelligence service, the emperor discovered that his court poet Banabhatta was behind the act.
A public trial was held in the royal court. Banabhatta was found guilty, dismissed from his position as court poet and expelled from the court. The emperor then uttered his famous remark: the greatest danger to a ruler is the sycophant, yet the harsh reality of kingship and politics is that no ruler and no politics can function without sycophants.
After Harshavardhana, we turn to the story of Caliph Al-Mansur’s court. Caliph Mansur was often so tormented by flatterers that he would leave the court, insult sycophants repeatedly and drive them away, growing weary of lies and desperate to hear the truth. On one such day, he ordered his courtiers to bring before him, at once, a widely respected scholar who would not fear speaking the truth in the caliph’s presence.
The caliph’s men searched Baghdad thoroughly and eventually brought Wasil ibn Ata from Medina. At that time, a judicial proceeding was under way concerning a dispute between the governor of Medina and the city’s most powerful tribe. Both sides were lying skilfully to mislead the caliph. On seeing Wasil ibn Ata, both parties told the caliph that he was fearless and truthful and agreed to accept him as a witness. The caliph asked Ata for his opinion of the tribal leaders.
Ata replied that they were thoroughly wicked people who constantly engaged in conflict and wrongdoing, turning people’s lives into hell. On hearing this, the tribal leaders lowered their heads in shame. The caliph angrily asked them why they had been lying all along. The governor of Medina, meanwhile, rejoiced and said, “O Commander of the Faithful, you can hear it yourself! You were angry with me without reason.” At this point, the tribal leaders said, “O Commander of the Faithful, now ask Ata about your governor.”
When the caliph asked about the governor of Medina, Ata replied that he was the chief of devils, gathering all the devils of Medina in his court, indulging in drink and obscenity, and setting the worst examples of corruption. The people of Medina, he said, were exhausted by the governor’s tyranny, and there was no worse man in the city. Hearing this, the caliph roared and said to the governor, “Speak! Now say that Ata has lied.”
The governor replied that Ata had spoken the truth, but suggested the caliph ask Ata what he thought of the caliph himself. With some confidence, Caliph Mansur asked Ata what kind of man he really was. Ata replied that among all the devils in the caliph’s administration, the caliph himself was the worst—more cunning and more ruthless than the rest; a patron and employer of devils, and a supreme example of hypocrisy and deceit. The suffering of the people under his rule, Ata said, could never be heard from within the palace walls.
Hearing these words, Caliph Mansur shouted, “Remove him! I can no longer listen. I cannot control myself.”
We have now reached the very end of today’s discussion. If we analyse the historical contexts of Caliph Mansur and Emperor Harshavardhana, Lalu Prasad Yadav’s speech, and the present state of politics in Bangladesh, then what is happening in Sonar Bangla scarcely requires further explanation.
Author: Politician and writer.
