You consider yourself a common man.
Not just as a description, but as an identity—one you’ve carried for years without ever stopping to question it. Over time, it becomes something you wear quietly, almost instinctively.
Today, let’s gently question that very idea—the idea of the “common man taxpayer.”
Because the invisible truth is this: the idea itself is deeply misleading. It trains you to accept suffering as normal—almost respectable.
And so you fight, you struggle, you endure—not once in a while, but every single day—just to exist somehow. Gradually, and almost without your noticing it, something settles inside you. You begin to believe that no matter what happens, no matter who is responsible, it is always the common man who suffers.
What if I told you that you are not a common man? And what if I told you that the common man never suffers at all?
More importantly, what if I told you that this idea you’ve been carrying—the “common man complex”—is not humility, but a burden you were trained to accept, along with all the emotional baggage that quietly comes with it?
Sit with that for a moment.
Alright.
But before we go any further, let me be clear about one thing.
This is not meant to comfort you.
It is meant to name something that is usually left unsaid.
The First Correction
You are not a common man.
No—not even close.
You are a taxpayer, and it is the taxpayer who suffers—not the common man.
The taxpayer, by definition, is not common. He is uncommon, in much the same way that common sense has become uncommon in public life.
And in case you’ve forgotten, let me remind you of something that is rarely said out loud: you are the one running this country.
Your shoulders carry the weight of freeloaders, encroachers, and lifelong dependents. When you work twelve to fourteen back-breaking hours a day, you are not working only for yourself or your family. In reality, you are working for crores of people whose lives quietly depend on one thing—your taxes being paid, on time.
So ask yourself this.
Where do you think the freebies come from?
The lollipops politicians throw around so casually during elections?
They don’t come from generosity.
They come from you.
And here’s the irony you’re rarely allowed to notice.
Yours is the most thankless role in the entire system.
No matter how hard you work. No matter how much tax you pay. No matter how sincerely you believe in lines like “ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.”
Nobody appreciates you.
Nobody even notices.
On the contrary, you are insulted, humiliated, and quietly reminded—at every nook and corner—that your contribution does not entitle you to respect.
You don’t believe me?
Alright.
A Familiar Scene You Know Too Well
The next time you drive your car through your city, slow down—not the vehicle, but your attention.
As you move through artificially crowded roads—encroached streets, weekly markets spilling onto main roads, unauthorized colonies—you’ll feel it almost immediately. A tightening in the chest. A low, constant irritation.
Look around. Notice how you feel.
You’ll realise that you’re driving through a sea of rehadis, shops, and makeshift markets like a lamb trying to cross a field full of wolves. Only here, the wolves don’t snarl or chase. They stare.
Have you ever really looked into their eyes?
You can hear it in their tone when you honk—arrogance mixed with entitlement, waiting just beneath the surface.
Ever wondered why that confidence exists?
Because they know something you’ve slowly forgotten.
They are the common people.
And what do common people have to lose?
Think about it carefully.
What do freeloaders actually risk? What is their investment in this city, in this system, in the rules you’re expected to follow?
Very little that the system is prepared to enforce or protect.
For them, Delhi—like so many cities—is merely a means to an end. A place to extract two things: resources, and your quiet generosity.
And why wouldn’t they?
You pay GST. Income tax. Road tax. Cess after cess. You pay on time. Always. You even feel good doing it—noble, responsible, patriotic.
At least, that’s what the propaganda wants you to feel.
“Pay taxes for nation-building,” right?
Then answer this honestly.
Why are you afraid to drive your own car—bought with your own money—on your own roads?
You already know the answer.
One scratch on the side door will cost you ₹5,000–₹10,000. Easily.
So let’s make it real.
A footpath encroacher pushes his rehadi forward. Metal scrapes metal. Your car bears the damage—long, ugly, unmistakable.
Even if you grab him by the collar, what happens?
Nothing.
A crowd gathers instantly.
“Leave him. He’s poor. A common man. What do you expect—him to pay?”
Now reverse the roles.
You hit a rehadi. A wheel breaks.
Do you think you’re walking away without paying?
Of course not.
You’re the paise-wala aadmi.
The car owner.
The SUV guy.
You must pay.
The One-Way Street You’re On
So here is your reality.
You bought the car with your hard-earned money, and you paid for it exactly the way the system demanded. Purchase tax. Road tax. Insurance. Cess after cess. Every rupee accounted for. No negotiation. No sympathy. Take it or leave it.
And after paying for the roads, you slowly realise something absurd.
There are no roads left for you.
Only battery rickshaws weaving without warning. Rehadis parked where lanes once existed. Beggars, hawkers, and obstacles masquerading as inevitabilities.
So tell me—who is the loser here?
You are.
And here’s where the irony deepens.
You are an uncommon creature. Naive, even.
Because who pays repeatedly for something he barely gets to use?
Who accepts the bill, again and again, without asking where the service went?
You do.
The taxpayer.
They, on the other hand, are the common people—the encroachers, the freeloaders, the parasites—the ones who consume without contributing and move on without consequence.
And somehow, you’re the one made to feel guilty.
The Uncomfortable Truth
Now let me say the part most people avoid saying out loud.
You are structurally invisible—to society and to the government.
You are a minority—more precisely, a micro-minority. And yet, you are expected to fund free ration, free education, free healthcare for everyone else, without complaint and without pause.
It doesn’t matter if you’re struggling to pay for your children’s schooling, or worried about your parents’ medical treatment, or simply trying to stay afloat yourself. None of that qualifies as urgency.
You are expected to manage.
You are expected to adjust.
You are expected to carry it all.
So tell me—who cares about you?
There is no institutional urgency attached to your survival.
In this system, you are not a citizen to be protected. You are a resource to be extracted.
You are a cash cow.
And a cow in India is sacred only as long as she gives milk.
You are no different.
The system wants exactly three things from you: your head lowered, your payments on time, and your silence intact.
The Moral Objection
“But isn’t it wrong to call people parasites?” you protest.
Of course you do.
See?
That hesitation itself tells me something.
You’re not common.
You’re decent. You have a sense of dignity. You still believe language should carry responsibility, and that words should not be used casually to wound.
But let me ask you something.
Do you see that same dignity reflected back at you?
Do you see it in the rehadiwala’s eyes when you honk?
In the tone that answers your presence with irritation rather than courtesy?
Have you ever heard anyone say:
“Thank you, sir. Because of your taxes, my children can study for free.”
Or:
“My mother survived because of government healthcare funded by your money.”
Have you ever heard that?
No.
Instead, you hear:
“Who do you think you are? Move your car!”
So yes—no one should be called a parasite. That much is true.
But something else is also true.
No one should live indefinitely off another person’s labour either.
When someone survives on your money without contribution, without accountability, and without even acknowledgment, they are feeding on your sweat—whether the word makes you comfortable or not.
Call it whatever you want.
The reality doesn’t change.
Why You’re Invisible to Power
When was the last time a politician used the word taxpayer in a rally?
Take a moment.
You can’t remember—because it never happens.
They know only three words: shoshit, peedit, vanchit. Words that signal suffering, victimhood, and numbers. Words that convert neatly into votes.
They never explain where the freebies come from. They never trace the money back to its source.
Instead, they say, “Our government did this. Our government did that,” as if generosity appears by magic.
In that story, you don’t exist.
And why should you?
You are not a vote bank. You are not predictable. You are not reliable.
You skip elections, assuming things will somehow work themselves out. And power notices that absence immediately.
So yes—you can make politicians care. But only under one condition.
You have to show up—in numbers. Vote. And bring another tax-paying neighbour with you.
Because in India, only one thing truly matters in politics.
Not morality.
Not gratitude.
Not loyalty.
Only leverage.
What This Demands of You
Listen.
Not as an instruction—but as an invitation.
You are hardworking, just like your parents were. Not loudly heroic, not publicly celebrated—just relentlessly responsible.
They buried their desires so you could study. They swallowed humiliation from a broken system so you could stand a little taller. They sacrificed quietly, without applause, believing that somewhere ahead there would be dignity.
A future.
So tell me—was it all for this?
For you to shrink?
For you to stay silent?
For you to accept disrespect as fate?
No.
Stop insulting yourself.
You are not common.
Taxpayers are not common.
They are rare precisely because they continue to carry the weight when it would be easier to walk away.
So stand straight.
Hold your head high.
Not in anger.
Not in arrogance.
But in self-respect.
Demand what your family deserves—not favours, not charity, but fairness.
Speak up.
Because there is no shortcut out of this.
The only way out—
is through.