Moral Ambivalence

 “Integrity is not measured by the noise of virtue, but by the quiet insistence of effort.” Albert Camus (?)

What do we do when doing the right thing costs too much? Not in theory—but in the messy, human ways that shake our lives. This is a reflection on those quiet, everyday negotiations we make with our conscience, and what it means to hold a line in a system that continually pushes us to let go.

Recently, in a WhatsApp group of old friends, veterinarians, mostly retired, we drifted into one of those painful conversations that reveal more than intended. It began with a few practical comments about retirement paperwork, legal battles, and the many steps required to receive pensions from public institutions in India. And then someone said plainly, "I had to pay ₹25,000 to get what I had already earned." Another friend added, "In India, nothing moves without bribes." Someone else spoke of fighting a legal battle for over two decades, spending lakhs on fees and unofficial payments, just to achieve a just outcome.

No one was boasting, nor was there shame. It simply reflected reality.

I said, half-joking, "We might pay bribes if we must, but let’s never take one."

I haven’t faced that particular test yet, having been away for too long. The boundaries I've drawn have largely been theoretical, from a safe distance. But I know that distance won’t last, and when I return, the lines I drew in theory might be tested in practice.

In some ways, perhaps I'm not so different from my friends. I've merely framed the problem differently, with philosophical reflections. So what does someone like me actually do when theory meets reality?

Even though I spent 37 years in the U.S. and was never directly offered a bribe, I encountered my own quiet battles. When beef farmers asked for prescriptions to build antibiotic stockpiles, even as regulations tightened, I refused. When a breeder requested surgery to conceal a hereditary defect, I said no. When a trophy deer hunting club invited me to be their veterinarian, I declined. And when breeders sought care, I treated them respectfully but directed them elsewhere, believing that animals should not be commodified. They are too sacred for that.

Yet, I have often wondered: what if the stakes were higher? What if integrity carried not professional discomfort, but personal pain?

Imagine a scenario—not hypothetical, but emotionally real. Suppose I secure a government posting in Kalyani, near my seriously ill wife who cannot travel. This job allows me to care for her fully. Then comes an unexpected transfer order to Jalpaiguri, an overnight train ride away, distant and disruptive.

Now the dilemma becomes stark. Would I pay a bribe to remain by her side and honor the private contract of love?

However, the Kalyani post itself has hidden costs. I'd oversee an experimental dairy farm that appears impeccable but harbors systemic corruption. Local political players manipulate every detail: substandard cattle feed arrives through inflated contracts, milk is diverted, vital medicines vanish before reaching animals. My unspoken role would be silence.

So now what?

Do I speak up, risking a transfer perhaps even further away, leaving my wife vulnerable and alone? Or do I remain silent, rationalizing my inaction as doing what I can?

This is the reality few openly discuss, when the right choice is clear but unaffordable, when integrity may mean failing someone you deeply love.

It's easy to imagine how I'd act from afar, but moral clarity from a distance is often deceptive. On the ground, ethics rarely feel pure; instead, they feel like compromise, discomfort, and frequently guilt.

We revere Gandhi and quote revolutionary ideals, yet most of us occupy a middle space—neither corrupt nor heroic—just striving to hold our line amid chaos.

In that WhatsApp group, I repeated a personal mantra: "I can’t change the world. All I can do is strive for honesty, and accept when I fail." It's neither an excuse nor self-congratulation, merely the place I return to again and again.

I still believe it matters when even one person within the system, a clerk, veterinarian, teacher, quietly refuses a bribe. I still believe it's worth teaching our children and grandchildren that they have choices, even when those choices seem limited. And I still believe we can hold two truths simultaneously: complicity is wrong, yet sometimes, we become complicit.

Perhaps moral ambivalence isn't confusion but tension, the difficulty of living ethically in a world that rarely rewards ethics and often punishes them.

Not every ethical compromise is dramatic. Many of us surrender not due to significant threats, but minor discomforts. We remain quiet because it's easier, because even the modest price of speaking up feels too heavy.

That struggle isn't between good and evil, but between comfort and discomfort, praise and blame, belonging and truth.

Here's a subtler example. In the same WhatsApp group, outrage about dishonesty was common, yet rarely did anyone suggest actionable change. Instead, the familiar refrain was, "ধ্যার কিছু হবে না।" ("Nothing will change.")

One respected, retired veterinarian shared a story illustrating our decline. Invited to conduct a government livestock training session in a village, he delivered the session and got paid. But most registered participants never attended, merely signing in to collect their stipend, disappearing until lunch.

He recognized the dishonesty, knew organizers were aware, but remained silent. "It would have upset the organizers," he explained implicitly, understanding this discomfort might jeopardize future invitations.

This wasn’t a significant ethical test—no sick spouse or livelihood at stake—just potential discomfort, possibly a smaller future payment. Yet that was sufficient to silence him.

I understand. I’m not casting him as a villain in a moral parable, but nor do I wish to dismiss these moments as trivial. This quiet erosion occurs slowly and subtly. We aren’t stuck—we simply hesitate to pay even a small price, convincing ourselves there is no point.

Who am I, really? Like most people, I’m a patchwork of memories, instincts, dreams, and fears. I've followed a familiar trajectory: education, career, relationships—some dreams fulfilled, others abandoned. Then arrived the long middle of trying to be good enough, followed by questioning, and eventually silence.

Within that silence emerges a persistent question: what compels one imperfect, flawed individual to quietly refuse betraying their conscience, while another shifts, rationalizes, or looks away?

Not sociopaths. Just people. Ordinary, conflicted, and trying to find a way.

I’d genuinely welcome your thoughts — whether you agree or disagree. But if you feel like sharing, I’m especially interested in your personal reflections… how you navigate these questions, if they matter to you. And if this resonates, feel free to share it with others who think or wonder along similar lines.