My mother once told me that senior citizens have money and power. I laughed. Then I watched her buy medical devices like some people buy shoes, and I stopped laughing.
A few years ago, I accompanied her to ICICI Bank. The moment we stepped through the door, the staff transformed into a hospitality brigade. A chair appeared. A relationship manager materialized, murmuring, "Auntie, please sit." Someone offered water. Another person advised rest after she'd climbed her Everest (a flight of stairs).
Meanwhile, I stood off to the side like an unpaid intern nobody remembered hiring.
When we left, I said, "They really treat senior citizens like royalty. You got the chair, the priority queue, the smiles. I didn't even get a nod."
She smiled. "Of course. Senior citizens have money and power."
I was still processing power when she added, "Youngsters are too busy upgrading their lifestyles. We're the ones saving."
The logic was airtight. The bank's air conditioning wasn't the only thing giving me chills. We weren't two customers; we were two species, the Spenders and Accumulators. And the bank knew exactly which one deserved the throne.
Fast forward a few years, and her accumulator instincts hit the target: medical devices. Blood pressure monitors, pulse oximeters, nebulizers, glucometers, and heating pads with prices that could grill a paneer tikka.
Every time I asked, "Ma, why does this tiny gadget cost so much?" she'd shrug.
"We need them. And we pay whatever they ask, that is what matters."
That's when it clicked. The bank wasn't showing my mother respect. They were showing her market value.
Industries had cracked the code: seniors are the perfect customers. They have disposable income. They have health anxieties. They have a lifetime of savings that's now looking to go somewhere. And unlike younger buyers who'll comparison-shop for three hours before buying a phone charger, seniors will pay premium prices for anything promising peace of mind.
Last month, she bought a 'therapeutic' foot massager that cost more than an average man's monthly rent. It has several settings, makes a sound like a small aircraft, and according to the box, 'activates meridian energy points.' I asked what that meant. She said, 'It feels relaxing and takes my pain away, that's what matters.'"
Device companies understood this before the banks did. Price a blood pressure monitor at ₹800, and a millennial will check Amazon reviews for two weeks. Price it at ₹3,500, slap on some clinical-sounding jargon, and a senior citizen will buy two, one for themself and one for their most loved relative. Don't overlook the suggestions they will make to their friends, and that is the real power of compounding.
It's not price gouging if the customer feels cared for. It's not exploitation if the product comes wrapped in the language of wellness and longevity. It's just good business.
Meanwhile, I'm still standing in queues. Chairless. Powerless. Not an accumulator.
But I'm learning. The next time someone asks why medical devices cost so much, I'll know the answer: Because someone figured out exactly who's willing to pay, and exactly what words make them reach for their wallet.
That someone wasn't respecting my mother. Turns out "auntie, please sit" was never about courtesy, it was about ROI (Return on Investment).
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