Temporal inequality in a 24/7 capitalist world where only the privileged sleep

In a world increasingly governed by the logic of productivity and efficiency, time has become one of the most contested and unequally distributed resources. The myth that everyone has the same twenty-four hours in a day hides a stark reality: while some enjoy the luxury of rest, leisure, and even boredom, others—especially gig workers, low-income mothers, and rural migrants—are trapped in ceaseless cycles of labour, excluded from the rhythms of pause and reprieve.

The rise of “24/7 capitalism,” as cultural theorist Jonathan Crary describes, has created a temporal regime where the clock never stops, and neither do those forced to serve its relentless pace. Sociology of time scholar Judy Wajcman deepens this analysis by showing how time is socially constructed, policed, and gendered. These perspectives help us understand how the economy functions around the clock and who it exploits to keep the wheels spinning, particularly in countries like Bangladesh.

Temporal inequality is not just about having too much to do; it is about having no choice but to keep doing. It is a condition marked by the inability to rest, to enjoy leisure, or even to experience uninterrupted sleep. For the Bangladeshi garment worker who starts her day before sunrise and finishes late into the night, or the app-based delivery rider weaving through Dhaka’s chaotic traffic, rest is a deferred dream.

While the urban elite in Gulshan or Dhanmondi may enjoy Netflix binges or weekend brunches, the working poor are locked in service, tethered to endless tasks. Wajcman’s work reveals how our relationship to time is stratified by power, gender, and class—those with authority shape time, while those without are made to chase it.

Jonathan Crary’s thesis of 24/7 capitalism posits that contemporary capitalism seeks to colonise every moment of existence. It is not enough to work long hours; individuals are now expected to be always available, responsive, and on. Sleep—the last bastion of unproductive time—is under siege. In urban Bangladesh, the widespread adoption of smartphones and digital platforms has brought this reality to even the most impoverished slum dwellers and rural migrants.

Delivery services, ride-sharing apps, and micro-tasking platforms demand constant presence. Gig economy workers are forced into temporal hyper-availability: the fear of losing income drives them to remain online and alert, even during hours traditionally reserved for sleep or family time.

In this world, time has become a currency that only some can afford to spend leisurely. Rural migrants who move to Dhaka in search of work often find themselves in exploitative employment situations where working fifteen-hour days is standard. These migrants, mostly from districts like Kurigram, Sunamganj, or Bhola, are caught in a temporal trap: their labour is required precisely because it is cheap and unprotected.

They are paid to be present, not productive, as time itself becomes a commodity purchased by employers. These workers cannot afford to be ill, to take time off, or to disengage. They live in overcrowded hostels or tin-roofed shanties where noise, mosquitoes, and the burden of survival fragment sleep.

Women, especially low-income mothers, experience temporal inequality with particular intensity. Wajcman’s feminist lens emphasises that time is gendered; women’s hours are sliced between paid and unpaid labour, caregiving, and emotional management. In Bangladesh, a working-class mother in Narayanganj may labour in a factory all day only to return home to unpaid domestic responsibilities—cooking, cleaning, and caring for children.

Unlike their wealthier counterparts, who can outsource household labour to maids or rely on extended family support, these women find no reprieve. Their rest is never full, always delayed, and frequently interrupted. They sleep lightly, often with one ear open for a child’s cry or the sound of an early morning alarm.

The pandemic, while universally disruptive, intensified these inequalities. In Bangladesh, lockdowns pushed many informal and gig workers further into precarity. Online delivery services saw increased demand, but the workers fulfilling those orders bore the brunt of the risk.

They could not afford to rest, even as the fear of contagion loomed over them. Temporal inequality was laid bare—while middle-class families stockpiled food and stayed indoors, delivery workers continued to move, often without masks or health insurance. Their labour became essential, but their humanity remained peripheral.

Global digital capitalism’s reach into Bangladesh has also reshaped aspirations. The promise of flexibility and self-employment seduces young rural migrants as they enter the gig economy. Yet, in practice, this often translates to unstable income and unregulated working hours. These workers are not simply choosing to work late at night—they are compelled by necessity.

The temporal discipline once enforced by factory whistles has now been replaced by app notifications and algorithmic nudges. Crary’s 24/7 world is not just about technology but a new kind of control that erodes boundaries between work and rest, public and private, day and night.

Furthermore, leisure itself has become a marker of social status and privilege. The capacity to “waste time” is a luxury afforded only to those who have met their material needs. A garment worker in Savar, whose body aches from a double shift, cannot afford the leisure that enables self-care, reflection, or creativity.

For her, watching television or scrolling through social media is not leisure but distraction—a brief escape before the next cycle begins. In this context, temporal inequality also becomes cultural: some lives are celebrated for their productivity, while others remain invisible unless they cease to function.

Educational opportunities, too, are governed by time. Children from low-income families often drop out of school to contribute to their family’s income. They begin work young, losing their childhoods and their future temporal freedom.

In contrast, affluent children enjoy structured routines that allow for time for learning, rest, and play—an investment in their future autonomy. The unequal distribution of time starts early and compounds over generations.

Wajcman encourages us to rethink the valorisation of speed and multitasking. In her view, faster is not always better, and time is not a neutral metric; rather, it is a social construct that varies across different contexts. The glorification of “hustle culture” and “always-on” mindsets, now globally diffused via social media, disguises coercion as choice.

For many in Bangladesh and beyond, the hustle is not a badge of honour but a symptom of desperation. The ceaseless labour of the poor subsidises the leisure of the rich, and the flexible time of the privileged is built on the rigid schedules of the underpaid.

Reimagining temporal justice requires systemic change. In Bangladesh, this means recognising that rest is not a reward but a right. Labour laws must evolve to protect gig workers and informal employees, ensuring minimum rest periods, predictable schedules, and access to healthcare. Social safety nets should be strengthened so people do not have to choose between sleep and survival.

Technological solutions must be designed for efficiency and equity—algorithms should enhance life, not encroach upon it. Crary warns that without resistance, the 24/7 world will absorb every last moment; Wajcman urges us to reclaim time as a space for human flourishing.

Ultimately, time is not merely a ticking clock—it is a site of struggle, a marker of inequality, and a terrain for justice. To ask “who gets to rest?” is to ask who matters, who is seen, and who is free. As long as some must toil through the night while others dream peacefully, the work of time justice remains unfinished.

In the fractured timelines of Bangladesh’s working poor, where days blur into nights and rest is always postponed, temporal inequality reveals itself as a social condition and a silent crisis that shapes the very contours of modern life.

Dr. Matiur Rahman is a researcher and development worker. matiurrahman588@gmail.com