When I was in class seven, I hated school.
I used to receive pocket money of twenty rupees, and the school took away five rupees for charity. I would be left with virtually nothing in hand for the second-hand novels I needed to buy, the chaat I simply had to eat during recess, and the noon-shows I used to go to when I bunked school.
Then a year later, in class eight, we had to start visiting an old people's home, which, it transpired, was where the money we contributed went.
I was moved to bits. And I never saw giving the same way again.
We were welcomed with open arms by these abandoned old people, and the warmth and affection we received from them was unparalleled. We told them about our lives, read stories to them, made cards for some old forgotten cousins. The ladies wanted the girls to put makeup on them. Others simply sat quietly, holding our hands and smiling. Even at that age, we sensed there was something almost transcendental about those encounters. We returned every month. We took gifts (more of my pocket money spent, but now willingly) and almost always stayed far beyond the allotted hour.
Those afternoons taught me that giving was never only about money. Time was also a gift. Attention was a gift. Respect was a gift. Money merely made some of those gifts possible. I thought I had gone there to give something away. It took me years to realise I had received far more than I had given.
Roots of Tradition
I remember discussing this with my dad. That was when he told me that almost every faith recognises that wealth carries responsibility. Islam has zakat, Christianity has tithing, Hinduism speaks of daan and seva. Different traditions carried the same truth: what we possess is never ours alone.
Dad, with his typical dry sense of humour, added, "Of course, all this is known more for its non-adherence." And this was like an alarm bell inside me, which kept buzzing for years.
When our oldest religious traditions have, for centuries, urged us to give, where did we lose the instinct to look out for those less fortunate than ourselves? Why are we no longer shocked by the world outside our car windows? And why do we fail to see how much difference, even a small part of what we possess, if given, could make?
For me these questions came rushing back when I started seriously working in the social sector through my involvement with a philanthropic organisation Social Venture Partners (SVP). I visited nonprofits in some of Kolkata's most deprived neighbourhoods—Tiljala, Garden Reach, Tollygunge and Kalighat—as well as in places farther afield such as the Sundarbans and Birbhum.
Two things struck me. First, the extraordinary, often selfless work being done by nonprofits. Second, the constant struggle to find the resources needed to sustain that work. I wanted to understand why. And I was startled with the findings.
Legal changes in the Companies Act made India one of the first countries in the world to make CSR spending mandatory by law. And it was not insubstantial.
Eligible companies had to spend at least 2 percent of their average net profits from the past three years on approved social development activities.
Over the past twelve years, CSR channelled more than Rs 2.6 lakh crore into India's social sector. Last year the figure was Rs 42,000 crores. Yet these numbers told only part of the story.
Figures and Figureheads
The latest Dasra–Bain India Philanthropy Report provides a good benchmark for this. The numbers are larger than most people realise because they include the entire social sector (public spending plus private philanthropy), not just NGOs.
Government remains, by far, the largest contributor, spending roughly Rs 26 lakh crore annually on the social sector. Even when public expenditure and private philanthropy are combined, total funding reaches only about Rs 27.5 lakh crore, well short of the Rs 43 lakh crore annual requirement estimated by NITI Aayog. The gap is a staggering Rs 16 lakh crore every year.
No amount of philanthropy can bridge that alone. But philanthropy has never been about replacing the state. Its role is to innovate, to take risks, to reach those whom systems miss, and to build institutions that can multiply the impact of every rupee spent.
Today, private philanthropy in India amounts to roughly Rs 1.4 lakh crore a year. Of this, about Rs 54,000 crore comes from ordinary citizens, Rs 50,000 crore from wealthy families and family foundations, and Rs 41,000 crore from Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR).
Together, these streams represent an extraordinary culture of giving. The challenge is not that Indians do not give; it is that much of this generosity still does not reach the organisations best equipped to solve society's most complex problems.
Out of the Rs 54,000 crore annually given by ordinary citizens, nearly 97 percent goes to religious institutions, family, friends and direct alms. And only 3 percent finds its way to structured nonprofits, whose work actually maximises impact.
There is nothing wrong with religious giving. It reflects compassion and faith. But it also means that relatively little reaches organisations capable of tackling complex social problems at scale. We readily give money to a stranger at a traffic signal, though we have no idea how it will be used. Yet we hesitate before supporting a nonprofit whose work is transparent and accountable.
A coin offers instant emotional relief, whilst organised giving demands trust, patience and delayed gratification. One soothes the conscience, the other changes lives. Imagine if just 10 percent of current retail giving shifted in that direction: it would mean an additional Rs 5,400 crores every year for India's best NGOs.
But this is where we need a cultural shift.
We have normalised the grim realities of our society to such an extent that we are taking both our wealth—as well as the poverty all around—for granted. We have become accustomed to inequality. We notice it, feel for it, and then carry on. Compassion flashes brightly, but, alas, only too briefly.
What we need is compassion organised into action.
Compassion Organised into Action
My young niece, visiting India from the United States for the first time, cried every time a beggar tapped on the car window. She wanted to help everyone.
Alas, somewhere between childhood and adulthood, many of us lost that instinct.
Children can learn to give long before they learn to earn. A culture of generosity begins at home. Families must make giving an ordinary conversation, not an occasional act. Society, too, should celebrate modesty more than extravagance, and recognise generosity with the same enthusiasm that it celebrates wealth. We need to recover the idea that achievement is always collective. Every successful life rests upon invisible labour, teachers, workers, family, institutions and strangers.
Giving is simply acknowledging that debt.
Schools, workplaces and governments all have a role to play. Organisations can create opportunities for employees and families to volunteer, while governments can strengthen this culture through tax incentives, simpler regulations and greater confidence in the nonprofit sector. But more than anything else, we should give because giving completes us.
We do not lack wealth. Nor do we lack kindness. What we lack is the habit of connecting the two.
I often think back to the angry twelve-year-old who resented losing five rupees every month. He believed generosity made him poorer. The old-age home taught him the opposite. Giving had not diminished him; it had enlarged him.
Perhaps that is the five-rupee lesson India still has to learn.
(Sunil Bhandari is a writer, podcaster, philanthropist and Chairman of SVP India, Kolkata Chapter. This is an opinion piece and the views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)