The Fallacy
On altruism, helplessness, and the need to believe we make a difference.
“Am I selfish?”
I thought to myself as the person was talking about their health. It has been six months since I started this job. At first, I was just like the others, starry-eyed, wanting to help people and be the change I want to see. Now, as I think back on these six months, I can only ask myself: have I been selfish?
“Thank you, ma’am, for sharing this information. We will try to connect you with a specialist. Please take care of your health.”
I jot down what she said and pack my things to leave the house.
“Madam, will everything be okay?” She looked up at me from her corner. Her face was sunken, devoid of hope. For her, this was just another doctor promising things for an uncertain future.
“Sure, ma’am, we will do everything we can to help you,” I blurted like a memorized template. I hurried out of the house to avoid any more questions for which I would have to give half-truth answers.
Why do people do good things? Is it to feel good about themselves, or is it to help others? If I do good things for others because it makes me feel good, then isn’t that selfish?
When does working for others become about working for yourself? Who draws the line?
I walk past a girl drying a bright green saree. She is barely able to stretch the saree across the line; her arms are not long enough. I try to navigate through the street to get to the next house.
A simple donation of your old clothes can become an ego boost for you. The meaning that donation carries is only known to the person who actually distributes your clothes. We would like to believe that the receiver goes back happily with something to wear. It helps us sleep better at night. But the reality may be that the person wearing your clothes wishes they didn’t have to rely on second-hand clothes.
I spot the battered house no.19. I dust myself off and make my way.
Get Amritha VR’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
We have constructed a world in which good deeds can become less about helping someone and more about absolving ourselves of our own sadness. It has become a window for many to look at and enjoy the view, oblivious to what is hidden below the window.
This window ends up protecting our self-esteem against the harsh reality of the world. If we help others primarily because it makes us happy, because we derive joy from seeing them smile, what happens when someone doesn’t appreciate our help?
The dirt road to his house was riddled with potholes. I wade through the puddles to finally reach the door.
We criticize handouts. For us, it is an attack on our pride that someone thinks we need help. The contradiction becomes murkier when we refuse to accept help ourselves, yet want to help others. Help becomes subjective to the receiver. We may unconsciously see the person we help as someone beneath us, while the thought of being considered deserving of help can feel like a personal judgment to the person receiving it.
Be it financial matters, a job, a simple favour, every intricate thing becomes woven into the balance of social relationships. The momentary serotonin rush we derive from believing we have made a difference is incomparable to anything else. But the moment we realise we owe someone something, everything changes.
I finally reach the front yard of his battered house, withered by storm and poverty. I see a boy skip through the street, unbothered and walking under the afternoon sun. He tosses a coin in the air and catches me watching him, lost in my thoughts.
As humans, we have evolved beyond the barter system, but social service was supposed to be above this, where we do a service because we can help someone. When the concept of self-preservation is introduced to an act of moral duty, the scales tip and perceptions change.
Are true good deeds supposed to be one-sided? Am I helping people because I can, or am I helping people because it makes me a good person?
But aren’t we all morally obligated to be a good person?
As I enter the next house, I clear my thoughts. I sit down and face a man in his early fifties.
“Good afternoon, sir. Do you have BP or sugar?” I open a new form and uncapped my pen.
“Yes, madam, I have BP since…” I write down his life story as he says it, another face I will be providing unknown hopes for.
All these faces I see, all these faces I treat, they all start blurring into one face. A face of an old, frail lady. Skin tanned from years of harsh labour. Her palms and soles cracked and dry. Her eyes are sunken into her face; the wrinkles on her skin are like writings on the wall. Each line represents the disparities she would have faced to get to me. Her lips parched and teeth stained. As she hunches over me and whispers in her raspy voice,
“Can you help me?”
She is the face I see when I go to bed, and she is the one who wakes me up as I go and try to make a difference. Not because it makes me feel good, but because I would like to sit by the window and imagine that this woman gets the help she wants.
