Flatter-ulence, negotiate the F-art of the deal

I have a theory: people who have grown up with vacuum-cleaners in their homes are particularly susceptible to flattery. I suspect it's all that sucking sound that can be heard intermittently over and above the roar of the motor.

I don't know whether the Nehrus of Anand Bhavan in Allahabad had procured an electric vacuum-cleaner by the 1920s, when a young Indira Gandhi was growing up there. The first electrical vacuum cleaners were being sold from 1908 onwards, after an Ohio department store janitor James M Spangler sold the patent to local leather goods manufacturer William H Hoover. But clearly, Indira, over time, grew up to be a formidable one to be fawned over by fawneys.

Watching the European Brady Bunch and Zelenskyy laying on the maska extra thick on the Big, Beautiful Trump may have been painful to watch for many people big on pride, humility, and other boomer self-worth products still on the market. But honestly, both parties - European flatterers Macron, Merz and Meloni, Starmer and Stubb (Trump's golf buddy from start to Finnish), as well as the flattered - seemed to know what they were doing. And more importantly, why they were doing what they were doing.

It would be naive to assume that Trumpus Maximus is a flattery addict who doesn't know when he is being flattered. He isn't your garden-variety narcissist who demands praise like a toddler demands attention. Don't let all that dum-dee-dum fool you. In a landscape that has always been full of flatterers - only the kind of flattery has varied - there are sommeliers of sycophancy who stand out. They nod sagely, believing they're on the way to being handed the Nobel Prize.

Speaking of the Nobel, Trump and his ilk, know the game that is being played. The flatterati may think that all that grovelling and fawning is worth it because of their strategic intent. Such a line of thinking would give them - and their well-wishers - the notion that they are actually smarter than the flattered calf.

That is, of course, exactly what an overling of the calibre of Trump would want them to think. But in the end, a lickspittle is the one who ends up lickspittling - which no amount of spin can make it look like a hug.

At the centre of world-class sycophantic behaviour sits a sycopath who tests how far into cringe territory these tactically obsequious grown-ups can go. The fun (for the sycopath) is pushing this envelope. Like the bizarre gesture of Keir Starmer carrying King Charles' personal letter of invitation to Britain for Trump when he had met him earlier.

Starmer believed he can afford to look like an idiot because his fellow countrymen would (hopefully) know that he's doing it to Make Britain Great Britain Again. But Trumpus Maximus already knows this - that the Brit PM doesn't really believe him to be the best thing since marmalade (despite the resemblance). So, he keeps on upping the bar for Starmer and Co. to hit kiss-rock-bottom.

At no point is the flattered obliged to return flatterers the favour. On the contrary, it is to see whether when suggested to bend, they can sidestep the whole crawling business and get straight to the part where they bore into the ground while singing praises. This addiction to being brown-nosed is subtle. When one sucks up to someone, that someone gauges the sucking sound and judges the poor sucker's foldability quotient (FQ) - that is, levels to which one is willing to do to anything at all.

So, does one, for the sake of king, country and desh ki dharti, go through the motions, and flatter away till one's objectives are met? Or should one, for the sake of one's personal image (read: net worth or electoral appeal) and company/desh ki izzat, call out a flattery-junkie - once flattery gets you nowhere?

It's a tough call. But calling out the flateratti can bring you an unexpected bonus: respect from The Flattered One. Which he may or may not then decide to convert into anything worthwhile.

While calling out the flattered can bring you an expected bonus: your stock rising in the mob's esteem for standing up to a bumptious bully no matter how bumptious you yourself may be. And that's because, like dirt and dust, human nature abhors a vacuum-cleaner.



(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)