By Babita BaruahThree weeks ago, we moved to a house. After nine years in a Gurgaon condo apartment. We had a wonderful life there, with its state-of-the-art facilities, manicured lawns, trees that miraculously blossomed all through the year, and support staff just a call away.Life in a house is different. It allows for more space, more freedom (like, we opted for off-the-grid solar power). But it does mean managing without the first-world luxury of the condo. Fixing things ourselves, including checking the water levels in the overhead tanks. Something that actually makes me feel active and responsible.Like today, when I came back from work, and walked to the local store for some staples. I waved to the local hairdresser (who has seen us walk by every day), stopped for a conversation with the owner of the fish place, and bought some samosas for people helping us put up some art on a wall. It took me back to Digboi, Assam. Growing-up years. When the world seemed small, closed and friendly. The days of pickles, postcards and inland letters, calendars hung on nails roughly hammered into walls, mealtimes with radio music. And what popped up were images of brands that made life what it was in the 70s and the 80s.DaldaMy mother called it Vanaspati. The yellow plastic with the green cap stood in its place of prominence on the kitchen shelf. Cooking vessels always had a white residue which Mother carefully covered up after the morning puris on Sunday were fried. The next time she had something to sizzle, out came the vessel and we would watch fascinated as the white orb melted into the golden bubbling oil, ready to brown whatever came into its boiling mass. The container was often repurposed as a flower pot, or to store lentils or sugar.DettolTill I turned 15, I always thought Dettol was white. That’s because my father, as I learnt years later, would carefully dilute it in an old Dettol bottle and keep it ready to swab his nicks and cuts during his morning shave. Graze on knee, kitchen-knife wound, the water used for swabbing the wooden floors – everything had the white liquid with its nice hospital-like smell. Bottles were bought before the current one was used up. We could not imagine a day without it.BataBata managers were like family. I used to wonder how every new manager knew our names, our classes, even our favourite sports. Schooldays meant black shoes with buckles, white canvas shoes for games classes. Mother wore ‘Sandak’ in the rains. Father always had his black leather shoes. He wore them everywhere — to work, for shopping, to the club, to social visits. Then, of course, were our Hawai chappals — four pairs, one each for father, mother, my sister and me. If the straps gave way, we simply replaced them and wore them till our toe left dark-blue imprints that bore deep into the off-white rubber. It was only when I joined advertising and proudly walked into Bata (my first account) that I realised it was a multinational brand – I had always thought it was local.HorlicksHow can someone from the East not grow up on Horlicks? Was a must every morning, was there when we were ill, was made for my grandmother when she was too old to eat solids, was there when my sister and I generally felt like having a spoonful. Still love it.Brown and Polsoncustard powderMother’s favourite dessert. Served up without fail after every dinner, when the guests were full of mutton curry, dal, baigan fries and chutneys. She would make the thick yellow custard in a glass bowl, top it with cherries and Marie biscuit crumbs, and put it away carefully in the freezer, warning us not to scoop it in our fingers.Mustard oilNot a specific brand but part of childhood. Used for cooking, as dressing in mashed potatoes with green chillis, as conditioner for dry skin in winter, and as a rub when we had a cold.Ambassador carFather had an old white one, second hand. Journeys were punctuated by a puncture or a heated engine. But it was with us for eight years till father passed away and we, ruthlessly, had to sell it off. It was like an old family member. We wept for days.We are now spoilt for choice. We have multiple brands around us, connecting, creating experiences and offering differentiated products. Brand engagements find their way into our interests, understand our behaviour and customise propositions with a sharp-shooting that seemed impossible a few years ago.But a true measure of success is when a brand finds pride of place (and a role) in our personal narrative. Like the brands in my story, which will always be part of my memories.(The author is Managing Partner, GTB India (a WPP unit))

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