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Time of India
7 days ago
- Business
- Time of India
India's middle class: From colonial clerks to digital citizens
If you really want to understand India, follow the middle class. From colonial courtrooms and chalk-dusted classrooms to metro stations, DigiLockers, and QR-code payments, this group has mirrored every shift in politics, the economy and culture. It has queued for ration cards, argued about GST, worked in Soviet-style factories, embraced market liberalisation, protested in the streets and founded start-ups. In a research paper, sociologists Surinder S. Jodhka and Aseem Prakash describe its evolution as a series of 'moments', distinct phases, each shaped by the historical, political, and economic currents of the time. This isn't a story that begins in 1947. The roots go back to the British Raj, and the middle class has reinvented itself at least three times since. 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From these campuses came lawyers, doctors, teachers, journalists. Most were upper-caste, from families that were comfortable but not wealthy enough to avoid paid work. Many had been to Britain, soaking up liberal and democratic ideals. They joined social reform movements and the freedom struggle, but their reformism had limits. Even as they pushed for change, they often reinforced caste, religious and community boundaries. Live Events Independence to the 1970s Post-Independence, the state was the great employer, and the middle class was at its core. Jawaharlal Nehru's model put the government in charge of economic planning, industry, and services. Between 1956 and 1970, public sector jobs grew by 5.1 million. The organised private sector added 1.7 million jobs from 1960 to 1970, but slowed dramatically in the next decade, adding only 0.5 million. These were salaried professionals, 'short on money but long on institutional perks,' who had unusual influence because the state still enjoyed real autonomy from market pressures. The bureaucracy thrived, sometimes 'hijacking' policy to serve its own interests. But the base was diversifying. Industrial growth, rural development programmes and affirmative action widened access. Reservations for Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes in education, public jobs, and politics opened new doors, though upper-caste dominance persisted. 1980s–2000s: the consumer turn By the 1980s, the Nehruvian state was running out of steam. Globally, market economies were thriving. In India, the decade saw rising aspirations, the growth of private enterprise, and the first cracks in the licence–permit raj. Then came 1991. Liberalisation expanded the middle class and boosted its spending power, but also exposed it to market volatility, inflation shocks and job insecurity. The media liked to portray this 'new' middle class as an income bracket with shopping malls and credit cards. But, as Jodhka and Prakash note, its real importance lies in how it sits between the state, market and civil society, influencing all three while representing a mix of communities. Jobs and sector spread Organised sector jobs – public and private – have always been the middle class's anchor, but they cover just 7% of total employment. Public sector employment rose from 11.2 million in 1971 to 18 million in 2007, growing strongly in the 1970s and 1980s. After 1996–97, contraction set in, cutting 1.56 million jobs by 2006–07. The private organised sector grew from 6.74 million jobs in 1970–71 to 9.24 million in 2006–07, a sluggish 1% annual growth. From 1997–98 to 2005–06, it even shrank by 0.3 million. Today, middle-income groups stretch across agriculture, industry, services, intellectual work and top decision-making roles. In rural areas, they include large farmers, small entrepreneurs and salaried officials. 2014–2025: policy focus and the politics of relief The last eleven years have seen government policy explicitly centre the middle class in India's growth plan. The aim: ease financial pressure, expand housing, transport, healthcare and education, and cut bureaucratic friction, as per the government. Taxation is the most visible shift. Exemption thresholds have been raised repeatedly, with a simplified regime in 2020. In the Union Budget 2025–26, the zero-tax threshold jumped to ₹12 lakh, with a ₹75,000 standard deduction, meaning someone earning ₹12.75 lakh pays nothing. The cost: nearly ₹1 lakh crore in foregone revenue. Compliance is easier too: pre-filled returns, faceless e-assessment, and ITR filings rising from 3.91 crore in 2013–14 to 9.19 crore in 2024–25. Inflation, the 'silent tax', averaged 8.2% between 2004–05 and 2013–14, but eased to 5% from 2015–16 to 2024–25 through tighter RBI coordination and better supply management. It has now fallen to 2.10%. The Unified Pension Scheme, launched in 2024, guarantees half of the last year's average basic pay after 25 years of service, with family pensions at 60%. It covers 23 lakh central employees and over 90 lakh in state systems. Urban life has transformed. The Smart Cities Mission is 93% complete. PMAY (Urban) has sanctioned 1.16 crore houses, 92.72 lakh of which are finished. Metro networks have grown from 248 km in 2014 to 1,013 km in 2025. Operational airports have more than doubled under UDAN. Healthcare and education have expanded. Ayushman Bharat–PMJAY covers over 41 crore people. Jan Aushadhi Kendras have grown to 16,469 outlets. Skill-building schemes have trained more than 1.63 crore people in everything from AI to mechatronics. Digital governance is now routine. Aadhaar covers 141.88 crore people. DigiLocker serves 52.51 crore users. UMANG delivers 2,297 services without a single queue. The contradictions remain From colonial reformers to online taxpayers, the Indian middle class has been both the engine and the product of its era. It has demanded state protection and market freedom, modernisation and community identity, reform and status quo. As Jodhka and Prakash remind us, 'The middle class also needs to be understood in terms of its role in relation to the state, market and the civil society.' The challenge ahead isn't just adding to its numbers, but securing its economic base while keeping the ladder open for those still climbing. Because in India, the middle class is more than an income bracket; it's the country's mirror.
The Hindu
26-07-2025
- General
- The Hindu
Adulthood, edited: how young India (still) lives
At a recent wedding in Delhi, the bride and groom told everyone they met through mutual friends. What the couple in their late 20s didn't mention was that those 'mutual friends' were the algorithm on Bumble, or that they had been living together in Bengaluru for nearly two years. At the sangeet, there were no photos from their apartment, no jokes about the IKEA couch they had painstakingly assembled together. Instead, their friends nodded along as the family described a sweet, serendipitous meeting at a birthday party. The past was not erased; it was simply rewritten to fit the room. This quiet rewriting of personal history captures something of an essential tension that defines much of modern India. In many ways, young Indians today are global citizens fluent in memes, trends, and aspirations that stretch across time zones. Their cultural references toggle effortlessly between a Brooklyn podcast and a Bollywood romcom. They swipe, stream, and dream like their peers anywhere else in the world. But the shape of adulthood in India remains unmistakably its own. In the West, turning 18 often signals a rite of passage: you move out, claim your independence, and are recognised both legally and emotionally as an adult. In India, that moment is far more ambiguous. You might live alone, earn well, and build a life with someone. But at home, you're still a child. Being an adult in the country is less a celebrated departure and more a lifelong negotiation — where the boundary between child and adult remains fluid, and both generations hesitate to fully acknowledge the separation. A quiet contradiction In India's cities, young people are caught in a curious balancing act. On the one hand, they absorb the promise of freedom and self-invention sold to them by western media as their own version of the American Dream, filled with dating apps, late-night parties, and endless possibilities. On the other hand, they return each evening to a world where family expectations and 'good behaviour' remain rewarded. It's a double life lived quietly, out of necessity. That tension, that clash, is where the real story lies. JNU professor and sociologist Surinder S. Jodhka calls this landscape a zone of 'negotiated freedom' — the space to explore, but within limits. The ability to be yourself, but only in parts. 'This is not uniform across genders. Young men often enjoy a greater degree of latitude than women, especially in conservative families,' he says. But even this is beginning to shift. As women increasingly outperform men in education and enter white-collar jobs, their negotiating power within families is changing, as observed by the higher average age of marriage. This expanding autonomy, however, does not unfold in a vacuum. It intersects with class, geography, caste, and community norms, all of which shape how much freedom a woman can actually claim. Recent tragic cases, such as that of a young tennis player and coach killed by her father in the name of 'honour' in Gurugram earlier this month, are brutal reminders that agency can still provoke violent backlash. Dr. Jodhka warns that 'while India has become more educated, it has not necessarily become more liberal. Education, once rooted in collective ideals of nation-building, social upliftment, and the promise of progress, has increasingly become a vehicle for individual ambition'. Young Indians today pursue degrees not to transform society, but to secure personal advancement: a job abroad, a sea-facing apartment, a passport full of stamps, a life that feels self-made. But this shift towards self-actualisation, he argues, 'hasn't loosened the grip of family or community'. You can major in gender studies and still be expected to marry within your caste. You can earn in dollars and still fear disappointing your parents. In India, success may look modern, but it often runs on traditional terms. The result is a quiet contradiction: rising education levels without a corresponding rise in liberal values. For many, this in-between state isn't temporary; it's the cost of modern life. Comedian Aditi Mittal sees this double existence as less of a new phenomenon and more a digital amplification of something old. 'We've always been different people in different settings,' she says. 'Only now, the audience is bigger and the stakes are higher.' She compares it to the comedy-drama The Marvellous Mrs. Maisel, where the protagonist is a woman fearless on stage but careful at home. The pressure to be palatable, to be just enough and never too much, shapes how many young Indians move through both real and virtual life. Rohit Biswas, a 33-year-old tech consultant from Gurugram, explains this tension. 'Sometimes I feel like my parents and I live in two different worlds. They grew up in a time when life was about duty and survival with no room for questions. I grew up with the Internet, social media, and a thousand voices telling me to find my true self,' says the millennial. 'We talk, yes, but it feels like they're trying to hold onto a past I'm trying to move beyond. I want to be authentic, but I'm also constantly aware of what would upset them. That tension is exhausting.' His father, 62, a retired government official, adds, reflecting on his own upbringing, 'My own father was strict; obedience and respect were everything. He never explained why; you just followed the rules. Being your true self with your parents wasn't something you thought about back then. That created a distance between us. When I had Rohit, I wanted things to be different — to listen more, to be open, but sometimes I wonder if the gap between us is even wider now. With social media and all the influences from outside, it feels like we're living in different worlds, and bridging that feels harder than ever.' Things aren't too different with Gen Z — a generation one might expect to rebel against the status quo or at least take steps towards rewriting the rules. 'I do see my parents trying to be more like friends now, and I appreciate that,' says Arpit Palod, 27. But the Mumbai-based data analyst adds, 'there's still this filter I have to keep on. I catch myself editing what I say, holding back details I know they wouldn't approve of.' Across the country in Chennai, Tamma Moksha, a 24-year-old journalist, is of a similar bent of mind. 'There are incremental changes. You will have that one friend who drinks with her parents or gives them her dating life updates. But that's not all of us,' she says. 'We have got comfortable living a double life, and not rocking the boat. Living away from your parents helps you to edit certain portions of your life. I live on my own, so I don't have to share everything with them.' Romance in the time of swipe culture Nowhere is this self-editing more fraught than in the realm of romance. Swipe culture may have redefined how young Indians explore relationships, but the shadow of tradition has coded its own algorithm. Dating apps such as Bumble and Tinder have exploded in popularity. India is now the fifth-largest market globally, with over 82 million users as of 2023, according to a report by German data gathering platform Statista. But just a swipe away, tells a different story. With 40 to 60 lakh new users registering each year, most of them between 25 and 30, it remains the country's preferred portal to socially sanctioned love. The most-used filters remain unchanged: caste, income, and mother tongue. What has shifted is how some of these profiles are managed. While many men run their own accounts, women often do not — profiles are created and controlled by parents or relatives, who upload pictures, answer queries, and sometimes proceed with matchmaking without the woman's full knowledge or consent. The gender imbalance remains glaring: four men for every woman, according to a data analyst at the matchmaking platform, underscoring a systemic skew that shapes the entire matrimonial landscape. Anthropologist Dinah Hannaford's study, Opting Out: Women Messing with Marriage Around the World, reveals a global shift that resonates deeply in urban India: more women are choosing to forego marriage, no longer viewing it as central to their identity or security. They are subtly rewriting the age-old script, challenging the roles tradition has long prescribed. Take Ananya Singh, 32, a software engineer in Bengaluru, who manages her own Bumble profile, swiping and chatting freely to explore who she wants to be with. For many urban women like her, dating apps are not about marriage right away — they are spaces for choice and self-discovery. Yet, this freedom exists alongside the quiet understanding that marriage remains an eventual expectation, adding another layer to the double lives they lead balancing independence online with tradition just beyond the screen. Meanwhile, her parents handle her account. 'I'm open to it because I know it's important to them,' she explains. 'Honestly, I'd prefer a love marriage, but if things work out through an arranged one, that's okay too.' For Ananya, these profiles are not contradictory but complementary, a way to honour her family's hopes while carving out her own path. 'It's a balancing act, but it feels like I'm keeping all my options open. I think a lot of us are just trying to avoid conflict and not disappoint the people who raised us.' Yet, this search for selfhood can be emotionally exhausting. Psychiatrist Jai Ranjan Ram, who lent his expertise to the film Dear Zindagi, encounters this silent struggle every day in his Kolkata clinic. He describes it as 'a profound conflict between duty and desire, a tension that many young Indians carry quietly. Parents often remain unaware or unwilling to acknowledge the complexity of their children's emotional lives'. There is no shared language for these unspoken burdens. As a result, the stress of hiding one's true self can manifest in deep anxiety, profound alienation, and sometimes, even social ostracisation. According to Dr. Ram, a shared language can be built — one that starts with listening without judgment. It means making space for vulnerability, both at home and in public life. The goal isn't to reject tradition, but to evolve it. 'Social media has amplified this dissonance. Though it has brought mental health into public discourse, providing vocabulary and visibility for struggles that were once invisible, it has also encouraged widespread self-diagnosis and the adoption of half-formed coping mechanisms, often without professional guidance,' he says. The result is a complex landscape where young people are left to navigate their emotional turmoil largely on their own, sometimes worsening their sense of isolation. Identities lived in translation India is, at this moment, a country defined by its youth. More than half of its billion-plus population is under 30. That fact alone feels both enormous and impossible to grasp. But what does it mean for so many to come of age at once in a society racing towards modernity, yet held in place by tradition. Their double lives are not contradictions but quiet negotiations, shaped by everything from matcha lattes and pickleball to filters and family WhatsApp groups. A young woman might listen to Pod Save America, a conversation on politics, on her commute to a temple visit. A student in Mumbai might follow the New York City mayor's race closely, cheering for candidates like Zohran Mamdani even while avoiding political debates at home. What emerges is not a clean break from the past but a layered, shifting mosaic of identities lived in translation. Of compromises made in motion. The author works in consulting by day and writes about culture, business, and modern life.
