LUXURY , REWRITTEN

LUXURY , REWRITTEN

Written By : Sanjay Shharma

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I don’t shun luxury. 

I don’t shun luxury. I’ve had my share of it—airline upgrades, designer suits, the finest single malts lined up like medals on my shelf. 

But over time, I’ve begun to feel we’ve simply misunderstood what luxury truly is. 

We often chase things that require password-protected accounts and scheduled appointments, forgetting the joy of opening your door to an unannounced friend. We splurge on imported honey, its sweetness often one-dimensional, while the real luxury hides in plain sight—like the nuanced warmth of gud eaten with the rustic chew of bajre ki roti. 

We pour fortunes into sterile health clubs, while the profound healing lies in greeting the dawn and walking beneath a verdant canopy that whispers peace for free. 

True luxury, I've come to realize, isn't about what's hard to get or what sparkles under showroom lights, but the simple, often overlooked moments and experiences that truly enrich our lives, like having endless cups of steaming chai without checking the clock or savoring vegetables grown in your own backyard.

There was a time I valued possessions like my Mercedes, a symbol of achievement. Now gone, replaced by simpler comfortable SUV. Even the generator, iWatch, and earpods – once modern necessities – lie unused. My preferred footwear now? Comfortable Bata chappals and well-worn softride shoes, valued for ease and experience over status.

We relentlessly expand our precious lifetimes—our vital energy, our fleeting health, and our delicate emotions—in a relentless pursuit of a luxury designed for display.

Colossal four-door refrigerators overflow with imported fruits, often leading to forgotten leftovers. Lifts are installed in bungalows despite capable legs. Stiff designer suits are chosen over the airy comfort of linen pants and simple chappals.

We jet off to Goa for infinity pools, sometimes overlooking the peace of a Himachal cottage. Expensive treadmills gather dust while lakeside paths beckon. We strap on costly watches, losing touch with unhurried time. 

This chasing of showcaseable luxury often blinds us to the genuine comfort and joy in simpler, more personal experiences.

Let me offer a glimpse into an evening that perfectly encapsulated this paradox: a kitty party hosted by peers, individuals who had diligently amassed the markers of conventional success. Limited-edition whisky, its amber depths swirling in heavy crystal glasses, was offered with an almost ritualistic reverence, accompanied by a lavish spread of five types of non-vegetarian starters, each meticulously arranged. Smooth jazz drifted from sleek Marshall speakers, the soundscape seamlessly integrated with voice-controlled ambient lights that shifted hues with an almost theatrical precision. Designer furniture, pieces of art flown in from distant lands and bearing hefty price tags, and the cool gleam of silver cutlery all contributed to an atmosphere meticulously curated for admiration. The women present carried their LV bags like badges of honor, while the men subtly, yet deliberately, flashed the polished faces of their Rolexes and Omegas. Even the return gifts – jars of exotic dry fruits, hinting at a cultivated palate – felt carefully chosen for their perceived value. 

The entire scene could have been lifted straight from the pages of a high-end luxury catalogue, a testament to acquisition and display. Yet, behind this façade of culinary indulgence, almost all the food had been anonymously ordered in, lacking the personal touch of a shared home-cooked meal. The kitchen, a gleaming expanse of state-of-the-art gadgets and polished steel, stood utterly untouched, a pristine showroom rather than the heart of a home. Outside, the hushed prestige of Mercedes and Audi sedans lined the driveway, silent witnesses to the evening's performance. Over delicate canapé bites, conversations revolved around future cruise holidays, the next horizon of conspicuous consumption. 

Outwardly, a veneer of fulfillment shimmered in the air. But deep down, a nagging question persisted within me: beneath the expensive trappings, were we truly nourished, truly connected, or simply performing a well-rehearsed play of affluence?

Life, I now perceive, unfolds like a long and intricate train journey. In the initial rush of youth, we instinctively jostle for the perceived best seats—a window offering a panoramic view of future possibilities, a cushioned berth promising comfort in our ascent, coveted access to the pantry car of privilege, where worldly validation seems readily served. 

We board this journey with a boisterous energy, our arms laden with heavy trunks overflowing with the tangible and the intangible: nascent dreams yet to be fully unfurled, fervent desires clamoring for fulfillment, the latest gadgets promising connection but often delivering distraction, a collection of stylish shoes meant to carry us to various destinations, the weight of accumulated achievements demanding recognition, and sometimes, even fragile egos carefully packed away in their own rigid boxes. 

The train relentlessly whirs past stations adorned with glamorous signboards—'Success', a fleeting stop promising admiration; 'Status', a brief platform of social validation; 'Social Approval', a crowded junction where acceptance is sought; 'Exotic Vacations', brief escapes offering temporary respite; 'High Net Worth', a celebrated landmark of material attainment; 'Follower Count', a digital gauge of perceived influence. 

Along the way, some passengers frantically hop between compartments, perpetually seeking an upgrade to a more exclusive class, their pursuit of external validation never truly satisfied. They invest in noise-canceling headphones, attempting to silence the inner unease with a manufactured quiet, often deliberately turning away from the ever-changing landscapes outside in their relentless pursuit of the perfect, fleeting digital self-image captured in yet another selfie.

But then, subtly, the lens through which we perceive the journey begins to shift. The allure of the 'best seats' fades as we realize the view outside is the same for everyone, just experienced differently. 

The weight of our meticulously packed trunks starts to feel like an unnecessary burden, hindering our ability to move freely and connect with fellow travelers in a genuine way. 

The constant clamor for attention and validation from the metaphorical 'pantry car' starts to feel hollow. 

Instead, a quiet curiosity awakens within us, drawing our attention to the simple exchanges happening around us, the shared smiles and unspoken understanding. 

The urgent need to document every fleeting moment on our devices diminishes as we become more present in the unfolding experience itself. 

The taste of the pre-packaged offerings in the 'pantry car' no longer satisfies a deeper hunger. 

Instead, we find ourselves appreciating the simple sustenance we carried within us all along – the warmth of a shared story, the comfort of a familiar silence, the chai from our flask.

It's not the train's speed that changes, but our internal compass, slowly redirecting us towards what truly feeds our soul rather than just our ego. 

This, in many ways, reflects my own journey and how I strive to live now. Funnily enough, some of my friends have started affectionately (and perhaps a little teasingly) calling me 'detached Baba' or 'Sadhu' because of this shift in perspective.

Having arrived at that quiet station of 'Peace'—or perhaps I’m just sitting by the door, legs dangling, still absorbing its stillness as the world rushes by. 

I smile now at the younger me who once believed luxury was the first-class ticket. 

I now know—it was always in the journey, never the ticket. 

Never the things you bought with your earnings, but what you never had to buy at all.

Yeh baal safed kisi salon ka karishma nahi hai. They’ve been dyed by sunrises seen in silence, by reflections in rear-view mirrors, by pausing when others rushed. 

My slightly wider waist isn’t a complaint anymore—it’s proof that I’ve sat down long enough to enjoy meals, not just photograph them.

Luxury now is being able to walk up three flights without panting, the easy rhythm of my breath a quiet testament to well-being. 

It's having someone know how I take my tea—a little less sugar, a touch of ginger—a small ritual of care that speaks volumes. 

And it's not needing to rush anywhere for the sake of being seen, the unburdened hours stretching ahead like a peaceful landscape. 

It’s the silence that speaks more than Spotify playlists, allowing the inner murmurings of contentment to rise. 

And it's the ghee wali khushboo from a simple homemade meal, a comforting aroma that defeats the most exotic, imported aroma candles with its deep connection to memory and nourishment.

Luxury, I now understand, is not something you achieve. 

It’s something you notice. 

"And the day you do, you realise—you were always rich. Just too busy to feel it."

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About the Author: 

Sanjay Shharma is a writer and cultural commentator dedicated to bridging ancient wisdom with modern life. 

He writes at the crossroads of ancient insight and everyday life. With a deep reverence for Indian traditions and a modern seeker’s lens, his work reawakens timeless truths for today’s world. He invites readers not just to read—but to remember, reflect, and rise with purpose.