Middle Class Is A Scam & I Escaped It
- Madhukar Dama
- 1 day ago
- 10 min read
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Prologue
Every society speaks of three classes: the poor, the middle, and the rich. We are told the poor are to be pitied, the rich to be admired, and the middle to be celebrated as the backbone of democracy and the driver of progress. But this story is not truth. It is a construction — an illusion that keeps people trapped in endless striving. The middle class, especially in India, is not a class at all; it is a mirage. It exists only in talk, in advertisements, in speeches. In reality, it is a treadmill — a scam that exhausts but never uplifts.
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The Mirage of the Middle
The Indian middle class is defined less by what it has, and more by what it does not have. A family in a two-bedroom flat in Bengaluru may own a car, but it is bought on EMI. They may send children to private school, but the fees consume half their salary. They may appear stable, but one medical emergency can wipe out decades of savings. They are not rich enough to be secure, not poor enough to be destitute — only suspended in a fragile in-between. Their identity is comparison, not reality: the poor look at them as successful, while the rich look at them as servants.
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The Machinery of Aspiration
The genius of the scam lies in aspiration. In India, every middle-class household runs on the promise of “going higher.” Parents force children into engineering or medicine, believing education is a guaranteed ticket upward. Coaching classes in Kota thrive on this desperation. Millions prepare for IAS, IIT, or NEET — yet only a handful succeed. The system needs just a few “success stories” — the one villager’s son who becomes an IAS officer, the one clerk’s daughter who cracks IIT — to keep the rest running. For every topper celebrated, there are millions of silent failures. The dream is structured so that most will chase, but almost none will arrive.
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Consumption as a Chain
In India, the middle class is the favorite target of markets. They are told to buy homes through endless housing loans, to purchase cars to prove progress, to spend on gold as “security,” and to upgrade phones every year to appear modern. A family earning ₹50,000 a month will still stretch itself to buy a flat worth ₹60 lakh, chained for 20 years by EMIs. The house becomes less a home and more a prison of debt. Advertisements fuel this trap: from Diwali car sales to “affordable luxury” apartments, every festival is turned into a shopping carnival. The middle class mistakes consumption for progress — but each purchase only tightens the chain.
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Fear as Obedience
If the middle is restless, why don’t they revolt? Because fear keeps them quiet. The poor may protest — they block roads when rations fail, they march when wages are stolen. The rich control power, immune to loss. But the middle class, haunted by the memory of poverty, dare not move. A salaried worker in Pune will silently endure an exploitative boss because he fears losing his EMI-paying job. A family in Delhi will tolerate corruption in schools and hospitals, as long as their child’s future seems intact. The fear of “falling back” makes the middle obedient — not out of loyalty, but insecurity. They defend the very system that enslaves them, because it promises safety.
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The Futility of the Dream
The Indian middle class is obsessed with “arrival.” Owning a flat, buying a car, sending children abroad — these become the milestones of life. Yet each milestone creates another. Buy a flat, then buy a bigger flat. Send children abroad, then struggle to pay their fees. Retire with savings, then worry about medical costs. The treadmill never ends. A government clerk may rise to buy a Maruti, but he will always envy the IT worker with a Honda. The IT worker will envy the businessman with an Audi. And the businessman, in turn, will envy the billionaire with a private jet. The middle class is trapped not in poverty, but in endless comparison.
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The Illusion of Stability
India celebrates the middle class as the “stabilizer of democracy.” But this too is illusion. Politicians invoke them as the “taxpayers,” yet they are squeezed the hardest — GST on food, income tax on salaries, fuel taxes that fund subsidies for the rich and poor alike. They dream of being decisive in politics, yet their votes are swayed by caste, religion, and fear of losing what little they have. They are neither revolutionary like the poor, nor ruling like the elite. They are simply the buffer — absorbing shocks, paying bills, consuming endlessly, never disrupting.
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Epilogue
The middle class, then, is not a reality but a carefully manufactured story. Poverty is at least honest; it makes no pretenses. Wealth is real; it commands power. But the middle is a scam — a perpetual waiting room where millions sit, clutching tickets for a train that will never arrive. The child studying for IIT, the family stretching for EMIs, the worker enduring humiliation for job security — they are not climbing; they are circling. To see this is to awaken. To step off the treadmill is the first act of freedom. Until then, the Indian middle class will remain what it has always been — the greatest illusion sold to mankind.
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I Escaped the Middle Class Scam
I was born into the ordinary world that tells you to study hard, get a stable job, earn well, and climb up in life. And I did all of that, step by step. I began as a Veterinarian, then pursued pharmacology, worked as a Veterinary Officer, went to JNU Delhi for higher studies, and did research at the Central Drug Research Institute in Lucknow. With that experience, I became a Manager at a private preclinical drug discovery center near Hyderabad, later served as an Assistant Professor at a university, and eventually worked as a freelance consultant for clinical trial design, execution, and analysis. In that role, I made a lot of money. On paper, I was successful. I was what society calls “middle class.”
But inside, I was drowning. One by one, I tasted all the troubles of being middle class: the endless race of EMIs, the obsession with “progress,” the fear of falling behind, the exhaustion of keeping up appearances, the constant comparison with others. My health began to fail, my energy drained, and my life felt like a treadmill — moving fast but going nowhere. The dream of the middle class was not freedom, it was slavery with better clothes.
And then I stopped. I gave up the middle class trap. I stepped out of the illusion. I moved to Yelmadagi, where I now live a minimalist, off-grid, homestead life. I do not chase status anymore; I live. I am richer than ever — not in bank accounts, but in air, food, silence, and freedom. I have the whole day for myself. My body has healed, my mind has opened, and my spirit has become light. Poverty, I realized, was never about lacking money; it was the desire to enter the middle class — the endless standing in lines for rations, freebies, or privileges handed down by others. When I cut off that desire, poverty dissolved.
Now, I work as a healer. My life is not middle class, not rich, not poor — it is beyond all of that. It is whole. It is abundant. It is amazing. And I can say this with certainty: the life I live now is much better in every way than any of the three classes.
I escaped the middle class scam. And in doing so, I finally became free.
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𝗜 Don't Want To Be Poor Like Grandparents & Scammed In The Name Of Middle-class Like My Parents
-- a dialogue with Madhukar
𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀
𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 (𝗣𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘆): Grew up standing in ration lines, living off government freebies, dreaming of escape.
𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 (𝗣𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘆’𝘀 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁): Found pride in small escapes from poverty, but still carries fear of losing everything.
𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 (𝗠𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗹𝗲 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀): Represents the treadmill of EMIs, jobs, and constant striving.
𝗠𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 (𝗠𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗹𝗲 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀’𝘀 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆): Believes in insurance, savings, and stability — yet feels the hidden anxiety.
𝗚𝗲𝗻 𝗭 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱 (𝗧𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲): Refuses both poverty and middle class illusions, wants a life of freedom and wholeness.
𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝘂𝗸𝗮𝗿 (𝗘𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗙𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗼𝗺): Once lived the middle class scam, now lives minimalist, off-grid, abundant life near Yelmadagi.
𝗣𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗩𝗶𝘀𝗶𝘁
The family from Bengaluru has come for the sake of their Gen Z child, who is very clear: they do not want to live either poverty or middle class life. They want to live like Madhukar. The parents and grandparents carry doubts and fears, and this dialogue is meant to confront them, layer by layer.
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𝗔𝗰𝘁 𝗜 – 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗮𝘀𝘁: 𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗣𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗲
𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “When I was young, poverty was all we knew. We stood in ration lines, waited for government rice, prayed for freebies. Our dream was simple: to escape. When my son got a job in Bengaluru, bought a scooter, and put his children in English schools — we felt we had made it. We called it dignity.”
𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “Yes, Appa. For us, entering the middle class was victory. We had a flat, a car, weekend dinners in restaurants. But it was never enough. One more loan, one more EMI, one more gadget. Life was a race without rest. We called it stability, but it was suffocation.”
𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝘂𝗸𝗮𝗿: “I know this story too well. I was a Veterinarian, a researcher, a professor, a consultant — I had money, recognition, status. But inside, I was exhausted. The middle class dream was not freedom. It was slavery dressed in respectability. Poverty enslaves through lack; middle class enslaves through desire.”
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𝗔𝗰𝘁 𝗜𝗜 – 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗹𝗲: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗰𝗮𝗺 𝗨𝗻𝗺𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱
𝗠𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “But we had security — didn’t we? Savings, policies, health insurance. Poor people don’t even have that.”
𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝘂𝗸𝗮𝗿: “Was it security, or fear disguised as security? One illness could still destroy everything. One job loss could collapse the house of cards. Your life was chained to EMIs, promotions, deadlines. That’s not safety — that’s a gilded cage.”
𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “Yes… we never rested. Even in sleep, our minds ran with anxiety. We were not living, just preparing to live someday.”
𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “But we taught our children to aim higher. Was that wrong?”
𝗚𝗲𝗻 𝗭 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱: “Ajji, you gave us survival, and that is precious. But we don’t want to just survive. We want freedom. We don’t want ration lines like you had, or EMIs like Amma and Appa have. We want to live like Madhukar uncle — with air, food, silence, and time.”
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𝗔𝗰𝘁 𝗜𝗜𝗜 – 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝘆𝘁𝗵𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗙𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀
𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “But what about respect? Society respects a man with a job, a car, a degree. Will it not laugh if we walk away?”
𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝘂𝗸𝗮𝗿: “Society already laughs when you fail to keep up — when your child doesn’t crack IIT, when you can’t afford the next upgrade. Respect built on comparison is another cage. The world will always talk. Let it. Silence is richer than applause.”
𝗠𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “But what about our children’s future? Without degrees, without salaries, how will they stand?”
𝗚𝗲𝗻 𝗭 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱: “Amma, our future is not in climbing the ladder but in stepping off it. We can grow, heal, learn, share. We don’t need degrees to be whole. Look at Madhukar uncle — he left the ladder and his life is fuller than anyone’s we know.”
𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “But… what if poverty returns? What if we lose everything?”
𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝘂𝗸𝗮𝗿: “Poverty is not hunger, it is desire. Poverty is waiting in line for others to provide. When you stop desiring the middle class illusion, poverty vanishes. I have no ration card, no freebies, yet I have abundance. I grow, I heal, I live. That is real wealth.”
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𝗔𝗰𝘁 𝗜𝗩 – 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆
𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “So the scam is not just outside — it is inside us. The belief that middle class life is progress, when it is only another prison.”
𝗠𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “And the only way out is not climbing higher, but stepping aside. Living differently.”
𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿: “We escaped poverty once. Now it is time to escape the middle.”
𝗚𝗲𝗻 𝗭 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱: “Yes. Let us live free — grow food, breathe clean air, live without debt. This is dignity.”
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𝗔𝗰𝘁 𝗩 – 𝗙𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝗻𝘀
They ask practical questions:
“How do we begin growing food?”
“How do we handle relatives who mock us?”
“What skills must we learn first?”
“How do we raise children without the treadmill?”
𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝘂𝗸𝗮𝗿: “Start small. Grow herbs on your balcony. Learn to fix things. Reduce needs before adding possessions. Each act of simplicity is a declaration of freedom.”
The day stretches from tea to lunch cooked from my garden, to evening under stars. Myths dissolve. Fears soften. The road ahead feels clearer.
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𝗘𝗽𝗶𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲
The family drives back to Bengaluru carrying seeds — both real and metaphorical. They have seen that freedom lies not at the top of the ladder, but outside it. Poverty was escaped once, the middle class scam now unmasked. A new story has begun.
𝗜 𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗺. And now, they will too.
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𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗻𝗸𝗲𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲
I saw men
with pressed shirts
and shiny shoes
rushing through traffic,
their eyes not on the road,
but on the next loan.
I saw women
holding shopping bags
like medals,
their spines bent
not from poverty,
but from the weight of “offers.”
I saw children
reciting alphabets
with the tiredness
of old men,
their innocence traded
for an entrance exam
that eats them alive.
The middle
is not a class.
It is a waiting room
with broken chairs,
where everyone holds a ticket
for a train
that will never arrive.
𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗼𝗿
at least
know they are hungry.
𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗵
at least
know they are fed.
But the middle—
they live in a dream
that smells like plastic flowers.
No fragrance.
Just dust.
I was once there.
Counting coins,
counting days,
counting steps up a ladder
that turned into a treadmill.
Every morning
the same uniform of anxiety.
Every night
the same sermon of “tomorrow it will be better.”
And my body gave way—
my lungs heavy,
my bones rusting,
my heart ticking
like a time bomb
disguised as success.
So I left.
I left the shiny shoes.
I left the anxious calendars.
I left the word “career”
that tasted like burnt paper.
Now,
my feet are dirty
with soil that feeds me.
My air is unpaid,
my time is unowned.
Birds tell me the hours.
Tomatoes tell me the seasons.
People ask,
“Are you rich or poor?”
I laugh.
I am neither.
I am outside their dictionary.
I am outside their scam.
𝗣𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗿𝗲.
𝗠𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺.
𝗥𝗶𝗰𝗵 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗻.
I am free.
My kitchen burns wood I cut myself.
My water is drawn from a well
that does not know the word “bill.”
My days are stitched
with silence and work,
and it is enough.
This life is not a lecture.
It is not a revolution.
It is not even advice.
It is a poem
written in sunlight
and eaten with bare hands.
And if you don’t understand it,
it is fine.
The scam will teach you
slowly,
in your bones,
in your sleepless nights,
in the endless chase
for nothing.
When you are ready,
come.
There is a mat on the floor,
there is food in the pot,
there is air in your lungs.
The mirage will disappear.
And the monkey inside you
will finally
sit still.
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