The weight of inheritance

I was reading Tolstoy’s How Much Land Does a Man Need? when a friend walked in wearing that particular expression — the one that tells you something is wrong. I looked up. He sighed, the heavy kind, and said, “Property issues at home.”

I didn’t need more context. He comes from a large, wealthy family, and this dispute has been dragging on for years now. He sat down and told me, again, how everyone in the family had turned greedy, how each person was clawing for more than their share. Everyone, he said.

That generous, all-encompassing word that somehow always manages to leave the speaker out. I noticed it but said nothing. We do this so naturally, don’t we? The moment we feel wronged, we step outside the frame, and from that safe distance, judge everyone still inside it.

I thought of Pahom, the protagonist in the Tolstoy story I had just been reading. A man who spent his life chasing more land, more security, more, always more, until the chase itself killed him. What he finally got was six feet of earth to lie in. That is all any of us gets, in the end.

I wanted to say this to my friend. I almost did. But he looked tired and bruised, and sometimes the truest thing is not the kindest thing to say in that moment. So I told him things would work out. He smiled the way people smile when they don’t quite believe you but are grateful you said it anyway, a little wry, a little resigned, and left.

After he went, I set Tolstoy aside. My thoughts had moved somewhere closer to home.

How much is enough, really? My friend is more than comfortable. His children will not want for anything. So why the fighting? 

In India, especially, this obsession with accumulating for one’s children has become one of our more corrosive habits. The hunger to leave behind more, more property, more savings, and more security has quietly justified shortcuts, moral compromises, and corruption dressed up as parental love. We tell ourselves it’s for them. But is it?

And anyway, what does too much actually do to a person? I feel that children who inherit more than they can handle have little reason to strive, struggle, or figure things out for themselves. We think we’re giving them a head start. But maybe we are just removing the very things that would have made them capable.

That evening, over dinner, I asked my 24-year-old son, gently, whether he’d given any thought to marriage.

“There’s time,” he said. “I’ve just started my career. I want to save up for the wedding. I’m not keen on using your money.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing. Maybe it’s not the children who need to learn something here. Maybe it’s us.