My limited exposure — and even lesser interest — in anything remotely connected with luxury or premium brands was once more laid bare in full public view. Though I’ve long grown immune to what others think of me — their opinions, good, bad, or indifferent — some moments or seemingly trivial incidents still manage to pierce my self-imposed armour and touch a raw nerve, scratching, if not piercing, the ego.
One such episode unfolded recently during an official tour to a mid-sized city that could be anywhere in the country. I checked into a star-rated hotel with quite an imposing façade and a plush lobby. It was while browsing through the tariff list that I noticed two different rates for the same room category — the Deluxe. Fatigued from a long day at work, I didn’t give it much thought and casually asked the courteous young lady at the reception why one was costlier than the other.” The room with the higher tariff comes with a jacuzzi in the bathroom,” she explained patiently.
The blank look on my face must have amused her, though she remained impeccably professional in her demeanour. Vaguely aware of what a jacuzzi was — mostly through watching glossy advertisements featuring sculpted models — I still asked her about it, and as to why it commanded such a premium.
At this, a few guests in the lobby looked at me as though I had just arrived from another planet. Unruffled, I showcased my best behaviour, smiled at them, thanked the lady at the reception, and booked the room without the jacuzzi.
Later that evening, after a hearty dinner and a long video call with my better half, Sonia, I slipped into bed, ready to rest. But sleep wouldn’t come. My mind wandered down memory lane — to a time when bathrooms in middle-class homes like mine had just one indispensable fitting: the good old brass tap. In Punjabi — the language used in our home then, before it got edged out — it was affectionately called the Tooti; simple, sturdy, and timeless. Whether in the kitchen, the washbasin, or the bathroom, it did its job faithfully, without fanfare or finesse. Somewhere along the way, bath showers made their modest entry — perhaps the earliest sign of luxury I ever knew.
The first ones were basic, almost awkward, like a giraffe’s neck jutting out of a wall. Yet, they carried a certain novelty — the joy of standing under your own little monsoon. Slowly, the shower cemented its place as a permanent fixture, though it never quite dethroned the suzerainty of the Tooti. The experience of using both together, I mused, was perhaps the humble precursor to today’s jacuzzi.
Back then, there was joy in simplicity and pride in utility. No one fussed about brands or high-end fittings. What mattered was that things worked — and lasted.
As I finally drifted towards a deep slumber, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I yearned, just for a moment, for those uncomplicated days when life was simpler and technology hadn’t turned us into its obedient servants. When a simple Tooti was enough to quench every need — and perhaps, every dream.
The writer is a corporate professional and an astute observer of everyday life
