Modern society has perfected the art of imprisonment — so gracefully, so tastefully — that most people never realise they are trapped. Today’s cage does not clang with metal bars. It arrives instead as a gentle digital message: “Your salary has been credited.” A monthly lullaby that pacifies ambition far more effectively than any medieval fortress ever could.
Walk into any workplace and you will witness a quiet, universal contradiction. Teachers shaping future citizens, doctors delivering hope, engineers building the digital tomorrow, bankers balancing economies, designers sketching dreams, and service workers handling tempers-all moving in unison towards the same destination: the paycheque. It is a golden leash, polished with benefits, bonuses, and just enough comfort to keep its wearers obediently tethered.
The trap begins innocently. A young graduate steps into the workforce brimming with energy, ready to change the world. Fast-forward a few years, and that same individual now bargains for leave like a petitioner seeking royal mercy and plans life around the date their salary appears in the bank. Passion slowly dissolves between monthly bills, EMIs, and rising expenses. Consider the teacher — once a torchbearer of imagination — now drowning in paperwork, circulars, and administrative drudgery. They may dream of pursuing research or writing books, but the monthly credit alert leans in and whispers, “Not practical.” In corporate corridors, the employee stares at the clock as though it were a countdown to freedom.
Their ergonomic chair becomes a throne of captivity; their KPIs rise as their enthusiasm falls. The doctor, among society’s noblest professionals, is caught in the same web. Between legal pressures, night shifts, and hospital targets, the paycheque slowly transforms from a reward into a sedative. Nurses, standing through double shifts, carry identical smiles for comfort and survival. Service industry workers-hotel staff, retail clerks, flight attendants — move through demanding shifts, their uniforms serving as armour against unreasonable customers and shrinking patience. Even the creative class is not spared. Writers churn out content for algorithms rather than artistry. Designers compress their vision to fit client whims. Musicians teach on weekends to subsidise the passion that cannot reliably pay rent. Sooner or later, every dreamer bows before the billing cycle.
This is capitalism’s most refined psychological trick-not coercion, but dependence. A system that persuades individuals that stepping outside is reckless, irresponsible, or foolish. The paycheque does not merely compensate; it conditions. It trains people to accept mediocrity, stomach unfair workloads, and exchange spontaneity for predictability.
Meanwhile, society glorifies this captivity, praising the “stable job” as the pinnacle of adult life. We applaud those who sacrifice weekends and answer emails at midnight, calling it dedication. But exhaustion is not honour, and captivity is not commitment. Almost everyone carries a private dream — a café on a quiet street, an art studio, a research degree, a sabbatical, a life where Monday does not feel like punishment. Yet each time it surfaces, the dutiful paycheque asks, “Who will pay the bills?” And the dream retreats. The modern cage may be invisible, but its bars-routine, fear, and comfort-are not unbreakable. A cage loses its power the moment someone realises the door was open all along.
The writer is an educator and a councillor; views are personal
