Anicca

Social media is inundated with the assertion that “no one should be a billionaire” and it has become a prominent moral standing among a vocal group of people on the interweb. The phrase raises legitimate concerns about wealth inequality, labour exploitation and concentration of power.

However, as with many slogans that gain cultural traction, its broadness and vagueness risks collapsing distinct forms of wealth accumulation into a single ethical category and in doing so, it often obstructs the very mechanisms of power that it seeks to critique.

The hullabaloo surrounding Taylor Swift’s emergence as a billionaire reveals a lot about this herd mentality which is rampant online and it is often accompanied by no amount of critical thinking. Taylor’s wealth has provoked a cultural anxiety that appears disproportionate compared to public reactions toward ultra-wealthy individuals.

The public outrage is not merely economic in nature. It is cultural and gendered. Taylor is not an oil magnate, a private equity executive or a tech monopolist. She is a highly visible cultural producer whose labour, persona and emotional expressiveness in forms of singing, songwriting and art are central to her public identity. The discomfort surrounding her wealth cannot solely be seen as opposition to inequality. Rather, in my opinion, it reflects unresolved tensions about women’s access to power, ownership and legitimacy within capitalist systems.

My demand is for analytical precision and critical thinking to prevail in this age of herd mentality and stupid but divisive “hot-takes” that sweep through social media.

Accumulation of wealth is not a morally uniform phenomenon and the process by which wealth is generated and the degree of labour involved, the transparency of accumulation and the uses of the accumulated wealth and power matters. Taylor’s case complicates dominant narratives about billionaires.

The Anti-Billionaire Rhetoric:

Extreme wealth at any point of time in the past, present or future is off-putting. The claim that extreme wealth is inherently immoral rests on the assumption that no individual can accumulate wealth to such an extreme degree without exploiting others. It should be noted that this assumption is often justified in cases involving resource extraction, financial speculation or monopolistic practices but the logic becomes less persuasive when applied indiscriminately.

Political economists often distinguish between different modes of capital accumulation. Wealth derived through rent seeking behaviour such as controlling access to housing, healthcare or natural resources operates very differently from wealth generated through direct labour and intellectual production. If we ignore this distinction, then there is no distinction between a George Lucas and a Elon Musk or a Mark Zuckerberg. If we ignore these distinctions, we are transforming the argument from structural analysis to a symbolic condemnation.

Taylor Swift’s wealth is overwhelmingly linked to monetization of intellectual property she helped create. Her dominant income streams include album sales, touring, licencing and publishing her art which is directly tied to cultural consumption rather than essential goods or coercive market control. Obviously, this does not render her wealth morally pure but it does situate it differently from other forms of wealth accumulation that rely on scarcity, dispossession or systemic harm.

Opposition to inequality requires specificity and critical analysis. Otherwise, without specificity, moral outrage becomes performative rather than transformative in the long run.

Taylor Swift’s Cultural Production:

One of the defining features of Taylor’s career is the visibility of her own labour. Unlike many wealthy individuals whose work is abstracted behind corporate structures, Taylor’s labour is public and ongoing. It is not an accident that she has achieved this level of success. She writes her music, performs extensively (is a fan of over-delivering) and maintains creative involvement across all her work. Nobody else was baking cookies for their fans and having secret hang-out sessions and opening up their hearts the way Taylor has continued to do.

The Eras Tour exemplifies this labour-intensive model. The tour was not merely a revenue generating enterprise but a physically demanding performance that requires endurance, rehearsal and emotional presence. The tours impact includes employing thousands of workers and contributing significantly to local economies which complicates the narratives that frame her wealth as purely extractive. Additionally, her model of – "if the tour does well, everyone involved gets paid more" should set a precedence in the entertainment industry!

Cultural labour is often undervalued precisely because it is associated with pleasure and emotion. The assumption that creative work is less than industrial or technical labour has historically been used to justify its under-compensation. Taylor’s success threatens the entertainment industry as it challenges this hierarchy by demonstrating that cultural production can generate enormous value when creators retain control over their work.

To dismiss her wealth without acknowledging the labour, creativity and hard work behind it reinforces the very devaluation of artistic work that critics of capitalism often seek to dismantle.

Ownership as Resistance:

The most significant factor distinguishing Taylor from other ultra-wealthy figures is her approach to ownership. The sale of her masters without her consent exposed a structural vulnerability faced by artists within the music industry. Taylor Swift engaged in a strategic market-based intervention and re-recorded her catalogue.

Economically, it devalued her original masters while legally operating within existing contractual structures and culturally, it reframed ownership as a site of resistance rather than resignation of your fate. Taylor’s public declaration and acts of reclamation established a precedent that will forever influence industry norms.

This is a prime example of how Taylor did not reject the market; instead, she used it to correct an imbalance of power. She demonstrated her agency within capitalist systems and expanded it through knowledge, leverage and collective support. Her resulting wealth is not merely the outcome of market success but the by-product of an intervention that challenged exploitative norms.

Gender, Ambition, and Moral Scrutiny:

The outrage and reactions to Taylor Swift’s billionaire status cannot be disentangled from gendered expectations surrounding ambition. It is a truth universally acknowledged that women who pursue power are more likely to be perceived as unlikable, manipulative or morally suspect which is not the case for men with identical behaviours.

Taylor’s career trajectory has been marked by strategic decision making, brand management and her continued vulnerability and ability to express herself and her emotions in a way that marks her as a brilliant storyteller. Her career trajectory has increasingly positioned her within a traditionally masculine domain of authority.

The discomfort provoked by her wealth has disrupted the cultural framework through which she was initially understood which is as a confessional songwriter whose value lay in emotional transparency rather than strategic competence.

Emotional expressiveness is tolerated and even celebrated in women, so long as it is not accompanied by structural power and Taylor’s refusal to be boxed within these distinctions and her refusal to choose between vulnerability and ambition challenges this age-old stereotype and binary.

Criticism framed as economic concern often masks deeper anxieties about women who refuse to self-limit. The demand that she justifies, apologises for or redistributes her success reflects expectations that women temper achievement with humility. Where are these demands for George Lucas, Steven Spielberg or James Cameron?

The Demand for Relatability:

Taylor Swift’s wealth destabilizes the concept of relatability which is a quality disproportionately demanded of women in the public eye. Her music has fostered a sense of intimacy with her listeners who interpret it as personal connection. When that perceived intimacy coexists with immense wealth, it produces cognitive dissonance.

However, relatability is not a moral obligation and it is a market construct that benefits audiences more than the artists. We will be conflating art with personal availability if we insist that Swift remain economically accessible in order to preserve emotional authenticity. Additionally, this expectation reflects a broader pattern in which women are asked to trade power for connection.

Taylor’s refusal to do so exposes the transactional assumptions embedded in audience attachment. It is evident that the audience forever wants a palatable version of you.

Philanthropy and Responsibility:

Supporting Taylor’s billionaire status does not automatically mean that I idealize her use of wealth. While she has made significant philanthropic contributions, no individual’s charity can offset systematic inequality and to demand that she solve structural problems through personal generosity misunderstands both the scale of the problems and the role of the State.

At the same time, Taylor Swift’s labour practices, including reported bonuses for touring staff and advocacy for artists’ rights suggest an orientation toward responsibility rather than indifference. These actions do not absolve her from scrutiny but they do distinguish her from figures whose wealth accumulation is accompanied by deliberate opacity or harm.

Conclusion:

Taylor Swift’s billionaire status is not a referendum on capitalism’s moral legitimacy; instead, it is a test of our ability to think critically about power without resorting to symbolic scapegoating. 

Taylor did not inherit her billionaire status nor did she accumulate it through monopolistic control of necessities; she did not detach herself from the labour that generated it. She was successful in navigating an exploitative industry, reclaimed ownership over her art and leveraged cultural production into sustained economic power.

If the goal of anti-capitalist critique is to dismantle unjust systems, then precision is essential. Blanket condemnation may feel satisfying and will get you clicks and likes but it obscures meaningful distinctions and reinforces gendered double standards.

Taylor Swift’s success is unsettling precisely because it resists easy categorization. It exists at the intersection of labour and capital, vulnerability and authority, intimacy and distance. Engaging with that complexity does not weaken moral critique; it strengthens it.

Supporting her billionaire status is not an endorsement of inequality. It is my refusal to flatten nuance in the name of ideological comfort and a recognition that who holds power and how they came to hold it still and will forever matter!

Some stories are written with ink on paper, while others are carved into the heart by time.
This one was never meant to be written. 

This post is inspired by the lyrics of 'Don't say you love me' by Jin, from the album Echo. It is partly based on true story & partly fictionalised. Which part is real and which part is fictionalised is for me to know and you to guess.

This story began like most stories people romanticise in retrospect: two college kids in love with music, mischief, and each other’s company. They were in the same class and were part of the same circle. They were always seen together; planning pranks and walking aimlessly for hours, laughing like time would never run out. And somewhere in the middle of a mountain trail, when he offered his hand to help her cross a ridge, she thought, Maybe I don’t have to do everything alone anymore.

That moment felt like a promise. Not in words. Just in the way he held space for her independence and offered care anyway. It cracked something open in her, something she didn’t know had been sealed shut since childhood.

They fell in love. Or she did.

The story should have ended long before it began to rot.

Unfortunately it did not. And so, after a few years of dating, they got married. And slowly, he stopped walking beside her. Not physically, no. He was still there in the literal sense. But  he had wandered off in every way that  actually mattered. He left her to carry the weight of two families, a job, a home, and the growing silence in between.

He let her burn quietly. Gaslit her when their world struck her with words that wounded deeper than any slap. He watched, shrugged, and called it normal or denied everything and said it never happened. He said he loved her.

But love, she learned, doesn’t ask you to bleed quietly just to keep the peace of one person.

The breaking point wasn’t loud and did not come with announcements or guidelines.

It came when she fell sick and the fever wouldn’t let go for long months. He didn’t check on her. He didn’t help. He didn’t care. The man who once reached out to catch her on rocky mountain trails now wouldn’t so much as lift a finger when she was falling apart.

Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

And that’s when the lyrics came to her. Like a cold truth whispered through, Jin’s voice shining as always: 

Don't tell me that you're gonna miss me
Just tell me that you wanna kill me
Don't say that you love me 'cause it hurts the most
You just gotta let me go

Because if this was love, she didn’t want it.

Now, she feels… nothing.

No rage. No heartbreak. Just stillness.

She looks at that chapter like an old coat in the back of her closet — heavy, shapeless, no longer hers. She survived 15 long years with him. She can survive anything. She’s stronger. Sharper. More cynical, maybe, but also less willing to settle for anything less than real.

This story should have never been.
But it was.
And now, it’s hers to end... in truth, not in silence.

 The light is what guides you home, the warmth is what keeps you there. - Ellie Rodriguez

A messy hair bun, a laptop, an overused notepad, a mobile with a Joker back cover, and a blue pen, this has been my life for the last 3 years. No matter where I am, these treasures never leave me to take a hard day alone or to smile with me on the sunny ones.

I am sitting on my bed, thinking about squeezing in some workout (well, thinking about it for the last 5 years, still haven’t started) while a familiar face is smiling at me. Mr. Khan (The King Khan), has been there on my wardrobe for as long as I could remember, and he has never failed to make me feel good about myself, even on those days, when I can’t even get out of bed.

This bed, this wardrobe with Shahrukh pic on it, used to be my home, not my room, but home. However, last few years, there is a thought in the back of my mind, hiding in the dark corner, peeping from time to time.

And finally decided to address it head-on.

Where is my Home?

Since I could remember, the room, I had in our old, dampy, half-broken railways quarter was my world. I had an old radio. I used to listen to Radio-Mirchi nonstop on it. My favorite show was when they used to play old Hindi songs (I forgot the show's name). I loved that tiny corner beside the radio, listening to songs, dreaming of dreams, and hoping for a place of my own to call HOME.

That dampy room was the witness to all my firsts, endless chatter with friends, my first journaling, first love, first heartbreak, my exams, sleepless night, and on and on.

And then the inevitable came, I left my hometown; Kolkata, to pursue my MBA in Hyderabad. I stayed in college hostels, and working women’s hostels, and shared a flat with roommates. But never, ever, I felt at home.

Then I got married, and rented beautiful flats for living, still, what was the thing missing…I still couldn’t figure it out. It’s like…

I have been to the unknown and felt most lost when I reached home.

No matter how comfy the bed is, and how familiar the faces were, I was not home. I have taken deep dives into the darkest corners of my mind, yet could never find an answer to the ever-haunting question…where is home?

I am still looking for my home, and I have no idea….

what is it or where is it or never the less who it is?

Over the years I have realized, my home was that corner beside the old shabby radio, my home was the salty torn bedsheet, the picture of Shahrukh.

What I have been looking for, for the last 13 years is not an address, but rather a warm cozy hug from you (Who are you?) to drench my soul with love.

The teenage girl, in that homey little corner, with stars and moon in her eyes listening to “yeh tera ghar, yeh mera ghar”, will not stop, until she finds her home, no matter where it is or who it is.  

“I am homesick for a place I am not sure ever exists. One where my heart is full. And my soul is understood. I am homesick for you my LOVE”

As the sobs wreaking through her body subsided, the tears in her eyes finally dried up. Brishti closed her puffed and stingy eyes as she tried to find a comfortable position on the cold, hard bed she had been curled up on for the last couple of hours. Her mind drifted off to those early days of her college life when she had spent an inordinate amount of time noticing and taking in everything he would do.

At the beginning he was just a part of her new group of friends at college. He was no different in her eyes from the other boys in the group or in the college for that matter. It was his unparalleled sense of humour that had caught her attention at first. He could take as much as he could dish out. Then came bunking classes, playing pranks and taking long walks into the natural beauty of the hills, Then she had unknowingly started to pay attention to his likes and dislikes in everything ranging from music to food. She started noticing how he was always there to bail his friends out of trouble, how he would be there to support his friends when they needed someone to talk to or just someone to sit quietly with. He would scramble down the dangerous slopes just to pick a flower that someone liked with the same enthusiasm as he would spend hours cooped up in a room to help someone understand the latest assignment from class.

Even today, she could not point out the exact moment when she had fallen in love with Akash. But she knew that it had to be at some point before she had divulged her darkest secrets to him one night over the phone. Instead of saying how disgusted he was of her, he had told her of his fears. They had both cried in the privacy of their rooms, miles apart but connected by modern technology. She wasn't sure whether they had cried because of their personal fears or for the pain of the other. All she knew that she had felt both light and heavy in her heart at the same time. The fact that her secrets had not driven him away from her had made her heart feel lighter than it had been in years. Yet there was also a new ache -- for her dear friend. Something had changed between them that night.

Now she could not help but wonder if that was also the moment she had turned blind to everything else that should have made her uncomfortable.

Over the next couple of years they had been happy like none other in this world. They had hardly ever fought and their love had only seemed to grow. They weathered through the rough patches in their individual lives together. They even survived when times demanded physical distance of hundreds of miles between them. They celebrated their little triumphs and assured each other that time would only increase and mature their love for each other. After all they would always be friends first in their hearts. Their happiness had known no bounds and the people around them started to brand them as the 'Sweetest' or the 'Perfect' Couple. She remembered having so much faith and trust in him that she had fought for him when time had demanded, even against her dearest ones. She remembered standing up for him when somebody showed less faith in him. She could still remember experiencing that giddy feeling, the butterflies in her stomach and the out of body experiences that she had only read about in books before.

She had heard the old saying that "Love is blind and Marriage is the eye opener" about a million times before and had always taken it as a joke. But something happened even before her marriage that made her wonder if it was a joke at all. For her all it had taken was both the families getting involved and them getting engaged. On one of the most important days of her life, when she had needed his support the most, he had let her down by not sparing even a thought about her. After knowing everything about her and her life, he had left her standing alone, to fend for herself when she was most vulnerable. She did not know how she had managed to smile and go about performing her duties as expected from her back then, but finding herself alone had made her stop and take a look around. That was when she had realized how blind she had been. The man who had promised to be her friend for life had never really kept his word. Her love for him had made her blind to all the instances he had invaded her life and had let her down in the past. For the first time she had stopped to take stock of all the times she had given into him because of her blind need to give him and to make him happy.

Still it had been too late for her. She did not want to create a scandal by breaking off her engagement. She could handle the heat and the pointing fingers, but she was afraid of the hurt it would cause her mother. A mother who had given up so much for her, who had truly been her true friend and the one person she had spent so much time convincing that he was the one for her. She could not bring herself to do the one thing that would free her from a lot of suffering but would shatter her mother's dreams, hurt her and leave her only caretaker to face the aftermath of the scandal. She had then talked herself into continuing the relationship, convincing herself that it was the right thing to do - at least for the sake of her mother.

Once reality broke through the illusion of her perfect love, she thought that she was ready to face the consequences of her follies. Surely now that she knew what to expect and what not to expect, she couldn't possibly be disappointed any further. But as if her realizing the truth was what he had been waiting for, his new promises increased as much as his deception. Every time she built a wall around her, he stripped her out her defenses even further. And for the last couple of months, it had come down to maintaining a perfect facade as much for the sake of peace at home as much for the outsiders. She tried her best to take care of her duties and responsibilities to the best of her capabilities and still take that extra step to take care of his needs, hoping that someday he would return her love with something more than empty words and promises. But every time she had been the first and only one to fall for the facade and set Herself up for more disappointments and heartaches.

After being together for over a decade, having her heart broken and trampled on she still tried to work it out with him. No matter what the latest reason she had come up with and convinced herself of, deep down she knew that she still loved him. No matter how many times she tried to explain her heart that she should hate him for putting her through hell, she knew that she still loved him. She did not know how or why, but she knew that she would always love him.

Finally feeling comfortable, Brishti promised herself for what seemed to be the hundredth time, that this would be the last time she would cry herself to sleep over him and let her tired body and mind succumb to sleep in the spare bedroom of their flat. Her last conscious thought was that her love for Akash was something like Nicotine Addiction. Once you got addicted, your body and mind craved for it. And even though you knew that it is harmful for you, it was damn hard to give up.

Source: Candy Cigarette by Sally Mann (Conscientious)

I know that look… I know that you are judging me right at this moment. See, if I care… Once upon a time, I would have cared but now I don’t. Not any more.

I was once like you – pure and innocent.  But I did not have a childhood like yours. Nor did I have the choices that you did. My life has been different from the very beginning. Why you ask? I do not know as I do not see any difference between you and me. I see the same heart and the same blood in both of us. We breathe in the same air and walk on the same earth. The same things hurt us and the same things bring us joy. Yet, my life is different from yours. Why you ask? Truthfully, I do not know.

People tell me it is because I dared to be born as a girl child in a family that craved only for a son. I was just a mistake conceived in a flurry of passion and regretted from the moment of my birth. No one cared that my sex was not my choice. No one cared that at I had the same need for attention and affection. No one cared that I can work just as hard and love even more. My younger brother was nourished and cherished, while I learnt to live on one meal a day – sometimes on even less. I was reminded every day that he was strong while I was weak. That my brother would grow up, earn and look after my parents while I would grow up and would need to be married off at the cost of a heavy dowry. I would always drain their blood and money. When my family could not afford the basic necessities, they sold off their only liability, me, in exchange for a meagre amount of cash that would keep their hunger at bay for a month. My cries and pleas did not move my parents. I was just a burden they were getting rid of.

From the age of six, I have been trained in every way possible to be successful at my trade. After all, I had to work off my family’s debt. I was only a little girl – fighting back wasn't an option. So, I learned the tricks and did my job even though it made me sick and hurt my insides. While numerous men enjoyed my flesh and ravaged my body, it did not matter if I wanted it or liked it or hated it – it was my job and I had to do it. I know you think that girls like me are in this business because it is an easy way to earn money or because it is pleasurable. But let me assure you that being beaten, whipped, tortured or used as an ashtray just to satisfy some sadistic need is neither a short cut nor is it pleasurable. Unlike you, I was not taught not to smoke or drink; instead it became my only escape. I felt violated, I felt trapped and I felt choked in my life but no one cared. Once again, my pleas for help fell on to deaf ears – I was yet to justify my existence.

It took me some time but I finally realized something… It doesn't matter whether anyone cared or not because no one can see beyond my flesh. You cannot see the pain in my eyes or the hurt in my heart or the broken dreams. It does not matter to you that I did not have the childhood I deserved or the love and affection that was my birth right. I do not deserve the prejudice you have against me and I do deserve the same respect as you. I warrant the same chance at happiness and the same encouragement to chase my dreams.

Did you ever stop to wonder who I am?

I am little girl with an old soul. My experiences have aged me far more than my years on this earth. I am a woman who is beyond any care in the world. After years of crying and begging, I know not to expect warmth or understanding or even a spare thought. So, why should I care for those who have always turned their backs and blind eyes away from me? I am a gentle spirit who has been pushed around for far too long. I am done being treated as a burden or a liability. I am tired of justifying my existence with every breath I take. I am just another human being who has been on the edge and back. My dreams and desires have been broken so many times, yet my soul and spirit survives.

I am the uncensored reflection of most women you know. Some trade in their freedom and some trade in their emotions. Some do it voluntarily and some do it involuntarily. Some do it in the name of love, some in the name of marriage and some do it in the name of family. All those little things that you take for granted from them, all those little compromises you expect them to make – brings her a step closer to what I unabashedly am. Every time you think she is weak, every time you try to suppress her, every time you take her choices away – you make her a little more like me. Crush her innocence, crush her dreams, crush her aspirations – she just gets a step closer to where I am.

I know that look… I know that you are judging me right at this moment. See, if I care… Once upon a time, I would have cared but now I don’t. Not any more. 

So, judge me all you want – for my actions and for the choices You think I have made. It does not matter because you are merely judging the piece of flesh that you see.