The Sin of Prosperity

There is something deeply comforting, one might almost say delicious, in despising the rich. They make, after all, the perfect villains in so many narratives: the champagne-swillers, art-collectors, the degenerates whose very existence serves as an affront to our collective sense of virtue. The stage for this indignation is not some bleak Dickensian street corner, but the gaping maw of social media. This is where hatred finds its fullest expression. 

A casual scroll through the comments on social media posts of celebrities, public figures, or otherwise rich people in our own lives reveals a great deal of outrage. This contempt, however, is rarely self-reflective. People in my own circle, most of whom would be in the top 5% in the country — a fact they often overlook — are the loudest in condemning those richer than themselves. Indeed, to judge the rich, one need not be poor; one need only be sufficiently hypocritical.

This is quite funny to someone who periodically zones out of such situations: the affluent decrying the affluent, the middle class deriding the upper class, and so on down the socio-economic ladder, until one reaches the poorest of the poor—who, perhaps mercifully, are too busy surviving to engage in such petty jealousies. 

A big, fat wedding (which is quite common in India) invites comments like “Why waste so much money? Give it to charity.” The venom reserved for the rich has undertones of socialist righteousness — an unspoken belief that wealth, any wealth, is inherently ill-gotten, and thereby immoral, while poverty is a badge of honour and moral purity. It is almost as if we long for a world in which we were all equally miserable, huddled together in the egalitarian squalor of scarcity. The irony of the fact that such anti-capitalist posturing is greatest in societies that have benefitted the most from capitalism, is glaring.

But I ask a simple question: If wealth is so contemptible, why do we all pursue it? Why do we rise early, endure the tedium of work, and strive for promotions? Why do we invest, save, and dream of a better tomorrow? What is the plan when we, someday, become what we now scorn? Are we going to suddenly find ourselves loathing the trajectory we’ve worked for all these years? The answer, of course, is that we do not truly despise wealth; we despise its absence. The world has managed the remarkable feat of elevating one of the basest human emotions—envy—into a virtue. The hatred of the rich is often nothing more than the envy of the not-yet-rich. It is easy to scorn the destination when one has not yet arrived. 

This hypocrisy manifests in the smallest of interactions. Not long ago, I was rebuked by an acquaintance for being "too invested in first-world problems." This from someone who spends his days debating gender-neutral washrooms in the workplace and agonizing over the carbon footprint of his coffee. The truth is, if you’re in the upper middle class, if you work at a corporate office and/ or live in a metropolitan city in India, chances are you live in the so-called first world for most of your day. You’re surrounded by calls for political correctness in your workplace, debates over pronouns among your colleagues, and climate-change pressures from your circle of friends. It is fashionable, of course, to profess concern for the downtrodden—the villager in Bihar who cannot feed his children, the labourer in Delhi who toils in the shadow of prosperity. Yet this concern is, more often than not, a way to signal virtue while living comfortably insulated from the realities one claims to lament.

I grew up in a middle-class household in which people worried about fuel prices, the spike in onion costs after a bad crop season, or how to stretch a bar of soap just a little longer. Today, my conversations are different. Now, I talk about the rising cost of airfare, the impossibility of affording a home, or the political correctness in my office. Am I to feel guilty that I no longer have to worry about onions or soap? Should I pretend I can’t afford these things to placate the morally indignant ones? Should I apologise for the world I inhabit?

Another experience comes to mind, one that fits perfectly into this theme of moral guilt-tripping. Just last week, a woman appeared at my door with a clipboard, demanding a donation for her NGO that, supposedly, feeds poor children. The month before, it was someone else, pushing for donations to save koala bears. And before that, it was a man insisting I contribute to a fund for autistic children. It seems that every few weeks, a new cause materialises at my doorstep, clipboard and all, demanding my charity. 

Now, don’t get me wrong—asking for donations isn’t what I have a problem with. It’s the manner in which they do it. These people weren’t remotely polite. From the moment they knocked, they were rude, as if my refusal to donate was some kind of personal affront. The moment I said "no," they attempted to guilt me. One lady even pointed to my apartment and sneered, "You live in such a nice neighbourhood, can’t you spare something for hungry children?" As if the price of my rent made me morally obligated to hand over my wallet on command to whoever asked. And when I did agree to donate? That wasn’t enough either. They’d then shame me for the amount, pointing to other names on their clipboard with larger contributions, implying that my donation wasn’t worthy unless it matched the most generous.

I once offered to donate clothes and rice, instead of cash for the homeless—something tangible, something I could be sure would go to those in need. But that, too, was beneath them. They turned up their noses as if I’d insulted them by suggesting an alternative. And when I asked how I could even be certain that my donation was reaching the intended cause, they didn’t even bother with an answer. Instead, they shrugged and said, "You’re rich enough to not worry about a few thousand rupees." It’s astonishing, really—the audacity to not only demand my money but also to judge my level of compassion based on the square footage of my home, by the visible trappings of ‘privilege’. And the worst part is, that while I am disagreeable enough to refuse, I know there are many people who are agreeable and shame-sensitive who would relent unwillingly.

But what, one might ask, is the purpose of this relentless guilt-mongering? It is not to alleviate poverty or to redress injustice; rather, it is to enforce a new form of social control. The wealthy must not only give but also grovel, not only donate but also atone. They must apologise for their air conditioning, their vacations, their apartment, their car, their soap and onions. 

And so, the wheel turns. The man who walks dreams of a bicycle, the man on a bicycle dreams of a car, and the man in a car dreams of a chauffeur-driven ride. But let a man reach his destination, and suddenly, the road itself is suspect—crooked, unfair, paved at the expense of those who still walk. It is not equality that people long for, but mobility. Equality is not the natural state of things; it never has been. It is a wish, a longing, a dream. But mobility is real. It exists in the sweat of the worker, in the gamble of the merchant, in the silent, desperate prayers of those who wish their children to have more than they did. And if there is resentment, it is for the unbearable knowledge that the ladder exists and must be climbed. There is nothing more bitter than the sight of another man ascending.

Image source: Gossip Girl (2007-2012)